


wanna be yours.

by alekstraordinary



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Edward Nygma, But now it's about Ed Oswald AND Riddler, Daddy Kink, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drug Abuse, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Gift Giving, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, It was supposed to be about Ed and Oswald, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Instability, Misunderstandings, Oswald is the King of Gotham, Power Dynamics, Secret Relationship, Strangers to Lovers, Sugar Daddy, but very briefly, eventual polyamory, later Established Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 94,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24965008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekstraordinary/pseuds/alekstraordinary
Summary: "The fine hairs at the back of his neck stood up straight as he slowly looked over his shoulder, all of his insides dropping down to the floor as soon as his eyes fell upon neon umbrellas shining boastfully on the walls, throwing a blue glow onto people’s intoxicated faces. Suddenly, he knew exactly where he was. The Iceberg Lounge." — an alternative universe where the Gotham as we know it is twisted in such a way that Ed and Riddler always remain separate people in a rather complicated relationship with each other, while in the midst of Ed's internal struggles to cope with murdering Officer Dougherty, he finds himself in the middle of the Iceberg Lounge, faced with the most powerful man in the city.AU playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3l5hgcYZLjDDEwawsWNTQG?si=Ll4A-LXGRAeFgTpsP2UvNA
Relationships: Edward Nygma/Oswald Cobblepot/the Riddler, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 131
Kudos: 343





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! There is absolutely no reason behind me writing this AU other than "haha sexy". This is what this fic is really going to be--my wet dream which is s1 Ed/s4 Oswald who I ship together because I'm an intellectual with an impeccable taste. There is literally no other reason or a grand plan behind this fanfic really I just think that the premise is sexy and I want to write a better version of what I've gotten in the show as my works tend to be. I'd also like to preface that I can't tell you for sure how regular the updates will be as I'm writing this AU mainly for myself as a means of giving myself something to do for the next three months before I start university. Either way if power dynamics and Oswald taking Ed as his trophy husband is the kind of stuff that's in your lane--strap in. This is gonna be quite a ride! And as always you can also find me on Twitter where I regularly scream about Nygmobblepot @alekstraordinar.  
> P.S. Yes the title is a clear and direct reference to Arctic Monkey's song "I Wann Be Yours" which brilliantly depicts the mood I want to have set for this AU and I recommend listening to while you read

He did not know how he found himself there. 

The past twenty-four hours had been a hazy blur of sickening anxiety spiking at the back of his neck and deep in his throat, intrusive whispering in his ears of such intensity it seemed to scratch at the inside of his brain, overwhelming, nearly paralyzing feeling of indelible proofs of his wrongdoings sprouting all over his skin. Logically, he was certain that he had covered all the tracks that could possibly lead the sudden disappearance of Officer Dougherty back to him--he worked in Forensics, after all; he knew exactly what evidence one might look for during an investigation and he meticulously destroyed every single one of them. There were no stains or biological material to be discovered, there was no murder weapon to be found, there was no body to be recovered, and all of that assuming that there was a single soul who cared about the corrupt policeman enough to take an interest in his absence, let alone look further into it. He was safe, he was trying to tell himself, there was no reason for him to worry. However, as the minutes passed by at an excruciatingly slow pace, instead of the adrenaline leaving his system his unease only intensified, the nagging voice in his head poking holes in his seemingly perfect plan. He shouldn’t have had done it in the middle of the street where anyone could have seen it from their window. He shouldn’t have had brought the body to dispose of at the station, where his made-up case could be easily verified. He shouldn’t have had left a note with a clue in it, spelling out his name, pointing directly at him. He shouldn’t have had done it _at all_.

Except, if he hadn’t done it, who would have had instead? _He had done the right thing_ , he had been trying to convince himself as he was becoming increasingly more agitated and skittish when the clock ticked away the hours. Tom Dougherty was a vile, pathetic thing taking advantage of his strength and power, abusing someone who was in no position to say no, or to leave, or to fight back. The world was a better place without such a measly maggot in it and if the time was to turn back, the only thing he would have had changed would be to scheme his actions thoroughly and not to let it be a heated act of passion. _He had done the right thing_ , he had kept repeating to himself over the unrelenting humming reminding that he was a murderer and that he was going to be found out despite his best efforts. That everyone could see it on him, that it was right there written in his pale face and in his nervous eyes, that he was dirty and he would never be able to wash off the mark he had put on himself. _He had done the right thing_ , he had insisted time and time again as he walked behind everyone’s backs in the cold shadows of the station and hid in laboratories working on non-existent cases, too frightened that if he let others look at him for more than a just a second, they would be able to see the sticky red still staining his skin.

Before his shift had ended, he had been so frantic with worry that each look thrown at him by the officers was like an accusation pushing him to the verge of panic of such intensity that the sheer perspective of returning home seemed like a suicide or an admission of guilt. The irrational fear of someone at the G.C.P.D. being bright enough to connect the dots had caused him to become restless and almost erratic, making him more visible, more noticeable when he prayed for nothing else than to blend into the background, to have everyone ignore him as they usually had. In addition to the mental anguish, the distress had also been taking a toll on him physically--his fingers twitching where they clenched at the edges of the files, his tongue swelling behind his tightly shut parched lips, his brain nearly sizzling with pain sparkling at the ends of his nerves. By the time he had finally left work and gotten to his car, it was as though he was barely himself anymore, the world in front of him coming rapidly in and out of focus, the floor spinning beneath his feet, sweat running down his neck. He could recognize symptoms of a severe panic attack, yet despite his best efforts, he could not control the shaking of his hands when he desperately searched for the ignition keys, his teeth clattering, his bloated heart sliding up to his throat. The tormenting pressure in his temples that had accompanied him through the day heightened to the point of crushing, his bones aching and bending, his thoughts scattering and disappearing and, lastly, his vision blurring and dissolving into endless, cold black. 

When he came back to, he was already _there_ , but he did know how he found himself there. He was at a bar, it seemed, but he had no memory of getting there and no actual recognition of the establishment--wherever he was, he had certainly never visited this place before when he was _himself_. The mere idea of not being in charge of his own body made hot needles sink deep into his brain, threatening to reignite the seating headache and char his consciousness away yet again. It was clear that attempting to retrace his steps in the anxious state that still clung to him like a bad smell was futile, and thus the only logical thing there was left for him to do was to focus on the present. He exhaled slowly through his nose as he tried to ease the nearly painful tension in his body and sort out the tangled and cluttered disarray in his mind. The vast majority of physical discomfort he had been in the constant state of since the previous night was now either already gone and slowly vanishing, leaving behind only an unpleasant memory. There was a crystal glass of alcohol in his hand, both resting on the smooth, shining surface of the counter, and he clutched to it a little more tightly, as if it was the only thing grounding him in the present. He raised it up to his lips and downed it all in one sip, letting the dark liquid burn down his throat and warm him up from the inside, remind him that he was alive, that he was real, and that this body belonged to him. 

Gagging slightly at the strong taste Ed finally risked a glance at the guests sitting by the curved bar--chatting, drinking, and laughing--but the sight of them only brought more doubts to his head than it provided any kind of an explanation. Judging by the stately posh and borderline ostentatiously lavish garments the people around him were wearing, it was rather obvious that he was sorely underdressed and the only way he could have had possibly made it past the security guards and onto the barstool was through the power of charm--something he most certainly lacked. Ignoring the implications of that as best as he could, he looked up, past the lines of bottles arranged into a rainbow behind the bartenders’ backs and through a great window overlooking Gotham’s tall buildings, their illuminated windows trembling in the distance like dying stars. Slightly closer, at the ends of the shining counter, there were two bronze statues of penguins with their heads tilted back, beaks raised up proudly, the sight of them causing freezing uneasiness to settle right back at the pit of Ed’s stomach. The fine hairs at the back of his neck stood up straight as he slowly looked over his shoulder, all of his insides dropping down to the floor as soon as his eyes fell upon neon umbrellas shining boastfully on the walls, throwing a blue glow onto people’s intoxicated faces. Suddenly, he knew _exactly_ where he was.

The Iceberg Lounge.

Anyone who had lived, passed through, or at the very least heard of Gotham in the past three years knew that Mayor James was just a puppet, just an image to hold up the appearances and that it was someone entirely different who truly ran, owned, and ruled the city. Maria “Fish” Mooney and her adoptive son Oswald “Penguin” Cobblepot were the ones who actually pulled almost all of the strings, controlling business, trade, and even a significant portion of the law enforcement. They were as far from being crystal clear as a person could be, as it was to be expected, with more blood on their hands and lives on their conscience than one could ever be bothered to count, and there was hardly a trick too low for them to pull to ensure that they remained on the top. It was not only through the brilliant planning and the amount of leverage they held that nobody ever tried shoving them off their thrones, but also the sheer terror they could plant in people’s hearts with their unimagined ruthlessness. As far as the public knew, nobody who had ever crossed Fish and Penguin stayed alive, and god only knew what was happening to the poor souls making the wrong moves behind the scenes. However, to say that the city hadn’t been flourishing under their rule would simply be a lie, with more money being brought than ever before, various establishment regularly opening or being restored, crime activity being kept under a surprising amount of control. The manner in which this seeming peace and prosperity had been being upheld was morally and legally questionable at the very best, but it didn’t change the fact that Gotham had hardly seen better days than the ones it had under the reign of those two villains. 

Villains who had made two particular places in the city very distinctively theirs, serving both as an additional source of income and the headquarters of the rulers of the city. Both of them were night clubs, both very exclusive and posh, difficult to get into and even more difficult to afford a drink in, both of them the heart of the underground life and business, where most of the deals were being sealed, disputes settled, favours exchanged. And, of course, one of them was the Iceberg Lounge. Somehow, in his dissociated state Ed had managed to get himself from his place of work at the G.C.P.D. station all the way to the belly of Gotham’s most bloodthirsty beast. It was rather ironic that in the midst of his desperate attempts to justify the heinous act he had committed, his subconscious had decided to bring him to the place where the most prominent gangsters, high-end thugs and influential criminals gathered to discuss whatever felony they were going to commit next over a glass of an unreasonably expensive themed drink. The longer he looked around the guts of the bar, the more conflicting feelings arose inside him, causing the agitation to dig deep into his flesh yet again. While feeling completely and utterly out of place, something at the back of Ed’s mind also insisted that he was exactly where he was supposed to be, as if fate itself brought him there or like the universe was trying to send him a message. Perhaps it was the voice in his head trying to show him that there was no going back from what he had done and that if he wanted to survive in this new, unknown world it was best for him to start getting familiar with the surroundings already, or maybe it was just guilt placing him among the worst, most deprived sort of people and asking whether he truly intended on sinking that low. Before he had the chance to consider which one of these options was more plausible, or ask for another drink to help him through this process, his gaze fell upon someone who made all of his thoughts disappear and replace them with raw, although oddly intriguing fear.

There were people in the world whose sight of one might grow used to on the front pages of newspapers, on the blurred TV screens, or on the crookedly printed wanted posters hung all on walls and telephone poles on every street corner, but seeing them in person with one’s own two eyes was an experience entirely different. And right there, sitting in a booth directly in front of one of the glowing umbrellas, was the owner of the club himself--Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, more widely known as the Penguin. Ed had seen him multiple times before, once even in person although from a reasonable distance, and working at a police station he had heard about him more than most of the citizens, all of which should give him more the reasons to return to his glass and keep his eyes firmly fixated on it for the rest of the night. Finding himself in such close proximity to one of the most notorious killers and most significant criminals in all of Gotham made every muscle in his body return to their painfully tightened state, his already short breath stilling entirely in his lungs, all of his focus shifting in this one particular direction. It was unwise to look at something so dangerous so openly, but the disturbing and the gruesome things held a strange quality to them, and the more deeply unsettling they were, the more difficult it was to turn your gaze away, and the King of Gotham was certainly one of those unsettling things. 

Oswald Cobblepot looked every inch appropriate for the position he was holding, and even on the backdrop consisting of a crowd of grossly rich people he was still carved out, standing out in a way that did not leave even a shred of doubt who was in charge there. It was like he was made entirely out of sharp lines, forming the edges of his crisply tailored striped suit, emphasizing deep shadows of his jawline and cheekbones, and drawing him out all the way to the tips of his spiky black hair with gleams of blue neon light in them. He was settled there comfortably on a leather couch, with one of his gloved hands resting on top of his cane, its handle shaped into a head of a penguin, the other one gripping at a cigarette holder with a thin line of smoke rising from one of the ends. He was undeniably a beautiful man, though in a rather peculiar. There was something about him, whether it was the pointy nose, the seemingly frail frame, or the curious eyes, that made him hold a certain amount of resemblance of the bird he had been nicknamed after. Were these features on anyone else at all, they would have made them look absurd, more like a caricature than an actual person, but in some odd way, they worked on Oswald Cobblepot’s face in a gorgeous harmony. He was absolutely stunning while being completely heartless, ruthless, and merciless, a combination of which that made him more deadly as much as it also made him so much more alluring.

And he was looking directly at Ed.

Cold sweat immediately gathered above his brows as he watched the kingpin of Gotham’s criminal underworld turn his head slightly to the side, never breaking the eye contact, and say something to the _ridiculously_ broad-shouldered man standing next to him, all the while making a move as if he was about to stand up. Ed snapped his head back to the bar and hung it low at a speed that made something in his neck shift in a highly displeasing way. He gritted his teeth down hard and closed his eyes firmly awaiting the unavoidable confrontation, his fingers pressing against the crystal of the glass to the point of light cracking as for all he knew in that moment these could the very last minutes of his life. It could be considered either an incredibly cruel joke or a well-deserved punishment if he were to die at the hands of a crimelord, and the cause for it would not be his pride or a period of disassociation, but rather his inherent inability to restrain his own curiosity. It had been made clear to him in the past that he simply did not know how to handle himself in most of social situations, and it appeared that this time it would bring his demise. Despite anticipating it, he still couldn’t help but jump with fright as someone spoke right behind his back. “Excuse me,” he heard a surprisingly soft voice, albeit there was a razor edge to it, like a freshly sharpened knife hidden inside a plush cushion. “Is there a problem I could help you with?”

With his heart pounding at a rate that could easily crush his lungs and shatter his ribcage, Ed turned around on his barstool at a sluggish pace only to face the Penguin himself standing right in front of him. It wasn’t until after he had looked into those icy blue eyes framed by dark lashed right above a freckled nose that he had realized that what he was experiencing was less of a scare and more of pure, unadulterated _excitement_. After all, the perspective of being in a close radius to dangerous people was one of the reasons as to why he had decided to work at a police station to begin with, and had he not been on edge for the past twenty-four hours, he would have recognized that what he was experiencing was not fear much earlier. This was _exhilarating_ , this was _an opportunity_. “I…” he stuttered, suddenly becoming aware of the alcohol in his system and the weariness heavying on his shoulder. “I… want what the poor have, the rich need, and if you’ll eat it you’ll die.”

Blinking, Penguin turned towards the huge man with a mental hand standing next to him. “Is this,” he began with disbelief. “Butch, is he asking me a riddle?” he asked, although he likely didn’t actually expect or _want_ the answer, and judging by the displease painting all over his bird-like features, it didn’t seem like he was very amused by the way this confrontation was playing out either. “Are you asking me _a riddle_?”

The corners of Ed’s mouth twitched with an intense emotion bordering with delight, all the worries and guilt tied to the murder he had committed the night before evaporating for a few brief moments. Still, despite thoroughly enjoying himself he knew that he had to tread extremely carefully and that no matter how deeply fascinated he was by the Penguin, one wrong word could easily doom him. “Nothing,” he finally explained the puzzle, only slightly disappointed that he didn’t receive the answer to it as he had been hoping to. “The answer is nothing. The poor have it, the rich need it-” he swallowed. “I want nothing from you, Mr Penguin, I was just… looking. I, I know who you are and-”

He was cut off by Penguin waving his gloved hand in front of his chest and shaking his head slightly. “ _Everyone_ ,” he uttered, putting a strong emphasis on the word, “ _everyone_ knows who I am,” he stated and there was a certain shade of pride in which he spoke that sentence, like it highly satisfied him that his significance in Gotham’s life and history was not a matter of a debate or opinion, but rather an indisputable fact. “Now, I don’t know who you are or who do you _think_ you are, but, sir, I suggest you _keep moving_.” It was a sharpened and pointed threat, but just like his voice before, this time also it was not presented raw and bare, but wrapped in a soft cloth and tied with a ribbon on top. He smiled, dimples forming in his hollow cheeks and around his thin lips, but it never quite reached his piercing blue eyes, which remained cold and deadly like those of a snake ready to strike. 

Returning a similar smirk, Ed nodded. “Will do,” he said, almost immediately sliding off the barstool and heading for the exit, fighting with himself not to look back. He was trying to appear calm and collected, like it wasn’t the first time he had been to this particular club, or of one of the kind, and although on the outside he carried himself with at least something in a shape alike to confidence, on the inside it was as though there was a swarm of bees buzzing in his stomach. Many contradictory thoughts and feelings brewed inside him: curiosity mixing with fear, fascination bleeding into guilt, excitement stitching to anxiety. When he had regained his senses by the bar, he feared that it was his other self showing him how low he had sunken and what he was sentencing himself to, but now he was no longer certain whether this interpretation was correct. He was confused and his anxiety was beginning to smoulder behind his eyes all over again, but more than anything he felt _thrilled_. At a certain level, he knew that it was just a momentary rush of adrenaline, a short-lived thrill that was going to leave him crashed and exhausted before the sun came up, but it was _good_. As much as the murder of Officer Dougherty made him spiral out of control almost to the point of breaking, it was also a thing that made him feel alive for the first time in a very long time and gave him a sliver of insight into the underworld he was so intrigued by since he was a child. Nevertheless, being in that club made him feel foreign and alienated, sticking out in a manner entirely different from the way its owner did. Perhaps his brief visit at the Iceberg Lounge proved what he was so desperate to confirm. He did not belong there.

He was not a bad man.


	2. two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ  
> Hi hey hello I managed to force my singular braincell to produce another chapter! Now before we delve into Ed's internal struggles I'd like to put out three disclaimers:  
> 1\. please keep in mind that I'm writing this AU mostly for myself so the updates are most likely going to be irregular! It might take me 4 days to write and upload a chapter or it might take me 4 weeks--all depending on my mental health and external factors. I will however try my best to upload roughly once hmmmm 7 to 18 days?  
> 2\. I edited the previous chapter a tiny bit so now the last sentence of chapter 1 has been removed and is the first sentence of chapter 2--just in case you're confused  
> 3\. the character referred here to as the Riddler is NOT the same Riddler as in the show. THE SHOW'S Riddler was Ed's ~*"evil alter ego"*~ merged with Ed himself. THIS Ed is the same glasses-less bitch in a dark suit as in s1--I just refer to him as Riddler from the lack of a better name  
> That's all? That's all. Now please enjoy and I would love to hear your thoughts and overall feedback in the comments! And as always you can find me on Twitter @alekstraordinar <3

Or so he wanted to believe.

When he first woke up to the loud ringing of his alarm clock, it almost felt like every other day, like his life was still been sticking to the same well-established routine it had for the past years, like nothing out of order had taken place. Groggy from the abruptly interrupted rest and with residue alcohol putting a bad taste in his mouth, it was only when he stepped into the shower with hot water hitting his tired face that he clearly remembered his visit at the Iceberg Lounge the night before. Although due to the blank spaces in his memory he was still not entirely sure how long _exactly_ he had been in there, the initial dread at the perspective of finding himself in the heart of Gotham’s underworld was no longer there, replaced with the kind of excitement he often experienced at the crime scenes he examined. The only difference between the two was that the thrill of talking to someone holding the majority of the city in the palm of his hand was more saturated and vibrant, quivering with something indescribably sinister, yet morbidly intriguing. Working at a police station, Ed spent most of his days near the criminal world, but always remained at a safe distance from it--like he was standing at the edge of dark water where he was so close he could watch it and see the details of what was hiding under the surface, but still far enough so its splashing waves never reached the tips of his toes. Yesterday was the first time when he dared to step into it, let it wash over him, send cold shivers down his spine and leave prickling crystals of salt on his tongue. It felt _incredible_. However, no matter how alluring the depths of it were, he was still painfully aware that they were as treacherous as they were seductive, like a drug luring you in with an ecstatic first dose only to then dig its claws deep into you and gradually turn you to dust. 

Thankfully, Ed was more than smart enough to not let the temporary exhilaration cloud his judgement or to prompt him into making another impulsive and irresponsible decision. No matter the experience, he knew that he had been sticking out among the villains and regulars of the bar like a sore thumb and that it was only by a stroke of dumb luck that nobody was able to smell the stale stench of the police station on his clothes. All the adventure aside, the events of the previous night also gave him the reassurance that he was so feverishly seeking, an escape from the voice in his ear calling him out on the sins he had committed. It was a crime, yes, but he was certainly _not_ a criminal and his deed could hardly be called a wrong one--if anything he had done the city a favour by freeing it of an individual so completely useless and harmful that in his pathetic existence and with a bloated ego he plagued the lives of people who had done him no harm, hardly ever did his job properly, and in the midst of his moral corruption he couldn’t even sink low enough to work his way into the underworld. It was better off in the world and for the people in it without Officer Dougherty, and with the note left in his name there certainly would not be a tear shed after or an eye looking for him, which only further assured Ed that he was not a bad person, that he had done the right thing, and that there were no more reasons for him to worry. He kept repeating it to himself like a mantra as he made his way through his morning routine, preparing for work and with each revision, it was as though more and more weight was being lifted off his shoulders and he could finally breathe without the restraints of anxiety wrapped around his lungs. The joy, however, didn’t last long and his good spirits evaporated the very second he parked his car in front of the edifice of the G.C.P.D., something like a monster feeding off his fear and guilt awakening in his chest. 

Despite the optimistic beginning, it seemed that this day was going to bring him another dose of pulsating headache pulling and tugging at the peeling pieces of him that he so desperately had been trying to stitch back into place. There was already tension in his scalp and pressure behind his eyes, hands unconsciously tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He hated it. He hated it when his oversensitive, and frankly cartoonishly exaggerated, emotions were taking the best of him, interrupting logical thinking, filling him to the brim with bitter worries, and making him increasingly paranoid. That wasn’t even the worst of it, though, because the more vulnerable and anxious he was becoming, the more the voice at the back of his mind was growing impatient and nagging, and the last thing Ed wanted was to let the dissociation take over him. He had to remain sharp and focused to not appear suspicious, and hopefully, by the end of his shift, he would be proven yet again that he had covered all of his tracks perfectly, and even if he didn’t, that the employees of the police force were simply not bright enough to see the mistakenly left clues. Given the station’s less than impressive record there were only two people who could possibly pose a threat and even calling them that was excessive, seeing how Bullock couldn’t even be bothered to do his paperwork most of the time and Gordon was too caught up with being torn between his romance with the M.E. and wanting to play the part of the saviour of the city. He was safe. He did the right thing. He just had to make it through the day to prove it to himself and put all his doubts to rest. 

Although usually it hurt to an extent and could feel incredibly lonely, this one time Ed couldn’t be more happy that most people he worked with tended to avoid interaction with him at all cost. It was not a secret that his social skills were considerably poor, and that the way he expressed himself was most often met with confusion and ridicule, sometimes even hostility. If it weren’t strictly case-related or for the sake of playing a joke at his expense, his co-workers always stayed away from him and paid him no mind, excluding him from the casual chatter and the social layer of the work-life. Nine times out of ten he was treated like he wasn’t even there, and as solitary at it could be at times, there were also undeniable advantages to it. If nobody wanted to see him, he was as good as invisible, free to sneak into the M.E.’s office to examine the corpses or to spend hours browsing through the old files he wasn’t technically supposed to be looking at without a reason. As long as he wasn’t found with his hand in someone’s chest cavity and all of his paperwork was neatly stacked on one of the detectives’ desks by the end of the day, he could pretty much do whatever he pleased. Unless there had been a murder and there just so happened to be a detective who cared enough to actually do his job, nobody ever really visited the Forensics Laboratory, giving Ed a space where he could hide in if he so wished, which was precisely what he intended on doing that day. He sincerely doubted that anyone would approach him by his desk, but he would rather eliminate every possibility of being spoken to that wasn’t absolutely necessary. 

By the time the afternoon rolled around, Ed was almost a hundred percent certain that the surge of anxiety he had experienced in his car was entirely meaningless and all the worries still smeared over the inside of his brain were just as irrelevant. He was correct in his predictions regarding the impact the disappearance of Officer Dougherty would have on the station--or rather the lack thereof. During the brief moments when he had to leave the lab to turn in the documentation he had been working on, he hadn’t picked up on any sort of gossip or any kind of unrest among the other employees. Not even the officers who could be considered Dougherty’s friends seemed to be bothered, like suddenly vanishing into thin air and leaving nothing but a simple note behind was something very much in character for him. It was indeed, which was precisely why Ed had decided to play his cards this way, although there had been moments along the way when he left as though even the short letter was excessive. Then again, it seemed like it was the safest way to make sure that nobody would decide to sniff around, let alone look for the man. And it would have had been if it weren’t for his borderline obsessive need to leave clues and ask riddles, if it wasn’t for some sort of a sickly spark of pride that told him to leave a hint on that godforsaken piece of paper. And now it was going to bring his doom. 

He knew what was going to be brought up as soon as he heard the familiar clicking of high-heeled shoes coming towards the Forensics Laboratory, quickly followed by gentle knocking and creaking of the old doors being pushed open. The pen between Ed’s fingers almost snapped in half from the tension as she spoke up, hesitation to her tone. “Mr Nygma?” she asked, holding up her polite demeanour, though it was nothing but a thin coat covering the wariness beneath. “Could I take you a moment?” 

“Ms Kringle,” Ed greeted her as he turned around in his chair, a fake smile plastered almost forcefully to his paled face. He kept his hands occupied with the papers spread across the desk not wanting her to see how much they immediately began to tremble. In that moment, even more than before, he so very badly wanted to believe that he had done the right thing to make sure that Officer Dougherty would never hurt Kristen again, but the uncertain fear she had in her beautiful eyes was of the same kind as if he still was around. If she suspected that Ed had done what he had, in fact, done, she would see him as a man of the same kind as the one she had just been freed from. Ed was not like that. He was _not_ like that. He would _never_ hurt her, and she must have had known that. “What can I help you with?” 

As she stepped closer, it was difficult not to notice that she was moving carefully, like she was in the presence of a dangerous man, and Ed could hardly bear it. “The note that Tom left me,” Kristen said as she waved the piece of paper in her hand, the crumpled state of which suggested that she had not only read it over and over again, she had probably also carried it around with her. She missed him. He hurt her and she _missed_ him. “Do you see anything strange about it?” she posed the dreaded question when she stopped right by the desk, yet still at a distance from him, holding the note between her thumb and index finger and waiting for him to take it. 

Of course he saw something strange about it. Of course he saw _exactly_ what she was talking about. Of course he saw his own name spelt on the very edge of the text because he was the one who put it there. As he took the paper into his hands, all he wanted to do was to swear himself off for being so naive, so petty, so _stupid_. Why, why, why did he decide to leave a clue? What was the goal of it? What was the purpose? What had he wanted to get from it? What had he expected to happen? He was so petrified of being found out, yet he put what could be considered his admission of guilt into the hands of a woman he was helplessly in love with, but who had hardly ever looked at him with anything other than reluctance. “I…,” he said slowly, still grabbing at the frail strings of hope that she wouldn’t dwell on the matter too deeply, that if he could convince her that he was just as clueless, she would let it go. “I don’t see what you’re talking about.” He shrugged his shoulders slightly, offering her the page back. “Is it… unusual that he left a note?”

Kristen shook her head, red ponytail jumping behind her. “No, but… right here,” she uttered as she leaned over and traced the tip of her finger across the leftmost row of letters in the text. “It spells out your name, see? N-Y-G-M-A. Nygma.” She then raised her gaze up at him, eyebrows arching slightly, almost challengingly. She was taunting him, wasn’t she? She was checking if he was guilty. It was bait, and he couldn’t let himself be tempted by it.

Instead, he kept playing his perplexed and confused part, looking over at the note again and squinching his eyes for the effect. “Oh!” he finally exclaimed with pretend surprise. “You’re right. What a coincidence.” He looked up at her, still with a stretched-out disingenuous smile. _Don’t ask_ , he begged Kirsten in his mind. _Please, don’t ask_. 

She straightened her back as she took the note into her hands again, folding it in half, but her eyes were still firmly fixated on Ed’s face, looking for a crack, a splinter or a smudge in the mask he had carefully put on for her. Despite her initial suspicions, her features smoothed and softened after a moment as she clearly remembered whom she was speaking with. It must have had been easy for her to believe his innocence, seeing how the person she knew was a rather shy and socially ungraceful forensic scientist with a peculiar passion for puzzles and an unrequited crush on her. She had never met the darker and uglier side of him, the side even Ed himself was scared of and thus she couldn’t even begin to assume what _he_ was capable of. For all she knew, she had just needlessly bothered one of her coworkers and stressed herself out in the process. “It is,” she agreed simply as she folded her hands in front of her, nodding her head. “Well, I won’t bother you anymore. Good day, Mr Nygma.” 

He returned the gesture, the edges of his smile already blurring. “Ms Kringle,” he said to her as he watched her leave, the door falling shut behind her with a distinctive creak and thud. He waited for a full minute after she had left, staring blankly at the dirty glass and listening to the departing footsteps, and only when he was completely sure that she had returned to her duties, he allowed himself to exhale, the lack of oxygen burning his lungs, the rush of adrenaline making the ground below his feet spin. He shut his eyes tightly and pressed his lips together as he slid his glasses up from the tip of his sweaty nose. “Think,” he muttered to himself as he ran his fingers through his hair absentmindedly, loose strands prying away from the layer of gel and falling down, tickling his cheekbones. “What can she find? Nothing! There is no body! There is no body, there is no proof, I’m fine. I’m safe.” He made a discontent sound of disbelief at how easy it was to shake him up and he turned back to his unfinished paperwork. His gaze slid across the half-finished report without even seeing it, failing miserably at picking it back up again only a second later. “But she looked so sad… I hate it when she looks at me like this.”

“Except that she _always_ looks at you like this.”

Ed almost fell off his chair as he heard his own, albeit fairly distorted voice coming from behind his back. When he looked over his shoulder, he was met with the sight of a copy of himself, a cocky smirk curving _his_ lips as _he_ leaned against one of the file cabinets nonchalantly, undeniable amusement sparkling in _his_ dark eyes. Even though _he_ had been there since Ed was a child, he never quite comprehended who this person was or why did _he_ exist in the first place, but at the same time he never really looked deep into the issue, too afraid of what he might find. Instead, he had decided to get used to hearing another voice in his head and the occasional empty spaces in his memory. It had never been a great issue for him, but simply how the things were, and sometimes it even made him feel less lonely. However, ever since learning about Kristen’s relationship _he_ had been getting worse, with the breaking point being the night of Officer Dougherty’s murder. _He_ called himself the Riddler, but Ed preferred not to think, call, or refer to _him_ at all. “You,” Ed hissed as he clenched his fist tightly, turning the unfinished documents into crumpled balls of paper. “What are _you_ doing here? No!” he added then quickly, his tone becoming increasingly distraught. “Don’t answer, I don’t want to know. You’re just going to make it worse!

Still with a smug expression, Riddler clicked his tongue, like he was taking undeniable pleasure in the distressing atmosphere. “You really should stop blaming me for your little incident,” he stated plainly as he brushed some imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder. Despite the almost identical resemblance, the difference in the manner in which they both spoke and moved was disturbing at the very least, and the sensation of watching and listening to him felt like returning back home after a particularly long day of work, only to discover that all of your belongings had been moved to the side by an inch or two. “I didn’t even think about it. It was just all _you_ , the blood is on _your_ hands.”

Almost swallowing his tongue and stumbling over his words, Ed shook his head rapidly as he waved a hand in front of himself, almost like he could physically repel the words being thrown at him. “N- no,” mumbled, but his throat swell and his mouth tasted sour. “No, I- That was the right thing, _I_ did the right thing!” he argued with a man who wore his face, argued with nothing more than a figment of his own imagination, he argued with _himself_. “I am _not_ a bad man, I am _not_ a bad person!”

“Well, you did technically nag, bother, and _stalk_ Kristen, and then _killed_ her boyfriend. That doesn’t exactly qualify you for the Nobel Peace Prize.” Riddler inhaled sharply through his teeth, still staring unblinkingly as he took a step forward. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. What is done, is done. It’s good that it happened sooner than later. Oh.” He put on a wider smile, yet his face remained cold and lifeless, like this of a doll with a set of sparkling eyes or a mask of an actor hiding their features behind a meticulously crafted facade. “Don’t give me that look, Ed, we live in the same head. I know everything you know, and then some because I’m not afraid to look where you are. You should be grateful that I was kind enough to help you so much last night!”

Fist falling heavily onto the desk with a loud bang, Ed exclaimed: “How?! How _exactly_ was putting me in a bar chock full of criminals supposed to help me?!” he wanted to know, but simultaneously he did not want to know. He could see, just out of the corner of his eye, at the blurred edge of his vision where exactly this conversation was going. He could see rotten planks and decaying ropes of a crumbling bridge stretched over the foamed and billowed mess of dark waves crashing underneath his feet, cold droplets spraying over him and burning his skin, and he knew that if he did as much as moved a single muscle, it would give in, _he_ would give in and he would fall straight down into the freezing unknown below.

Riddler then closed in, even more, moving swiftly with his gaze firmly fixated on one point, like a predator stalking its prey. He leaned forward, almost bending in half, and were he a tangible being, Ed would undoubtedly feel his breath on his face. “How did it feel?” he asked, his tone sweet like honey and bitter like poison.

“It felt _beautiful_.” 


	3. three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not saying that I'm still incredibly excited about this AU but I did write this chapter in 3 days started the next chapter and laid out the plot for the next 5 chapters or so [nervous sweating],,, Yes I'm invested yes this AU is the only thing that's keeping me sane and what about it! Now if you're like me and you're wondering when the Sexy Dynamics™ is finally going to start--it's going to be in two chapters I know that the wait is excruciating but there has to be a proper build-up until we get to the good cush. ALSO I hate to be That Bitch (not really) but I would really love to hear your thoughts in the comments <3 I do love me some feedback <3 also-also you can catch me clowning myself on Twitter @alekstraodinar <3

It was different this time.

His first visit at the Iceberg Lounge had not been a matter of a conscious decision, but rather it had come down crashing onto him like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky, leaving him dizzy and perplexed and with the faint memory of an electric shock still tingling in the tips of his fingers. Instead of being given a choice, he had been simply put there and left to make sense of his surroundings through the haze of confusion, much like a lab rat placed in the corner of a maze for no other reason than the curiosity to see what it would do in the foreign environment. Ideally, it would manage to walk away from the dead ends and avoid the traps scattered in the narrow passages to eventually make it to the precious reward hidden in the middle of the tangled mess of intertwining corridors. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what the prize was just yet, or where he was supposed to look for it, Ed was quickly beginning to realize that being the rat in this scenario had quite a few benefits to it, many of which tied directly into being safely transported into an already prepared setting. The previous night it had been Riddler who found the exact location of the bar, drove there, made it through the security by the entrance and all the way to the counter in front of the tall windows, going even as far as ordering a drink and emptying half of it. Tonight, however, was Ed’s turn to play both of the roles--the one of the puzzled test subject expected to stumble around blindly in the search for the secrets held at the end of an obstacle course, as well as the one of the scientists in a white coat, sitting behind a pane of glass with a writing pad in hand. It was up to him and him only to come up with, put together from the sparse pieces he had, and then show off a version of himself good enough to gain the access to one of the most high-end establishments in all of Gotham. 

Although he had been trying to avoid it like the plague for the remainder of his workday and the drive from the police station back to his apartment, Riddler’s words still hovered over him like a cloud of thick dark smoke, constantly reminding and almost provoking him to take a closer look at the small, cold thing sitting deep in his chest, right under his heart. He did not want to allow himself to ponder over it for too long or examine it too closely in fear of being heard, but there was twisted logic and sense to the implication that had been aimed at him. What he had originally labelled as nothing more than slightly disturbing excitement now felt heavier in the palm of his hand, and what had initially appeared to be thrill was now turning out to be only an outer layer, protecting something hidden inside and his fingers inched to peel it back and get to the guts of him. If he had mislabelled an emotion this simple and basic, was it possible that he had also misjudged the tightness in his stomach and the rapid beating of his heart that had accompanied him all the way through first recognizing where he had been, intensified as he talked to the Penguin and then still had followed him home until he had fallen into his bed? And if it were to be so, would that also mean that what he had taken as being out of place and standing out was really him experiencing an odd sense of belonging for the first time in his life? He had spent so many years nearly drowning in fascination, watching from afar, longing to see the city’s criminal underbelly and get at least a taste of it--it was only natural that he became dazed and overwhelmed when he was suddenly submerged in it completely and it poured in through his mouth and nose and filled his lungs beyond their capacity. 

There he was now, trying to learn how to embrace it and to breathe through it with his gills only now beginning to form as he sat behind the steering wheel of his car parked on a curb, the blue sign of the Iceberg Lounge looming in the distance in front of him, the neon umbrella above it flicking on and off every few seconds. Figuring out where the bar was located turned out to be nearly unsatisfyingly easy, albeit Ed should have had expected it, seeing how a good portion of the people employed at the G.C.P.D. were sitting in the Penguin’s pocket, and they were quite loud about it, too. All it took for him to acquire a slick, dark-blue business card with the club’s signature logo and the address all printed in a white, stylish font was to leave the Forensic’s Laboratory and snatch it off of one of the officer’s desks while he was dropping off a completed report in the Commissioner’s Office. With that in hand and a clear idea where he was going, once his shift had ended he had returned home to prepare himself for whatever the night was going to bring him, both physically and mentally. As he had never been one to go out, used to his own company due to the choice of others as well as his own, he could only imagine how strict the security at the Lounge was and assume whatever criteria the guests were expected to meet in order to be let inside. Judging by the contents of his closet and the state of his bank account, Ed was quite certain that the only way he--or rather the Riddler--had been allowed in yesterday was entirely due to the power of charm and persuasion. Unfortunately, these were not skills Ed possessed, and so all there was left for him was to hope that any of the security guards would recognize him, that there would be no further complications, and that the rest of his evening would go smoothly. He still did not know what his goal was, or what exactly he was expecting from this visit at the club, but once he had stopped lying to himself he could finally feel just how mesmerized he was by the Lounge, how it was drawing him in some inexplicable way. All he knew was that he _had_ to go back there.

Now it was the time for him to leave his car, climb to the very top of the building and step into the bar once again, searching for something that would help him fill in the image of his newfound purpose, or perhaps even himself. Out into the freezing cold with a faint metallic tang in the air, across the street cluttered with dead leaves and old newspapers, and through the clean and tall revolving door into the bright, shining foyer of the skyscraper. By the time he had gotten into the elevator and pressed the button with a little umbrella on it, his hands were already beginning to shake where he kept them tightly clenched in the pockets of his checkered coat. Such a peculiar mixture of sensations washed over him as the elevator ascended--some parts excitement, some parts uncertainty, some parts hope, all sprinkled with a pinch of fear and lovingly doused in almost childlike wonder. It was no longer a matter of whether he should, was supposed to, or needed to, for when he heard the chime announcing that he reached his destined floor all the fibers of his body were fizzing with an indescribable _want_. No matter how hard he had been trying to deny it, he had been longing for the return to the Lounge ever since he had first woken up in the morning. He wanted to think that he had left a part of himself by the bar and that he would never be the same person again unless he retrieved it and put it back in its place, but the truth was quite the opposite. It was as though only when he sat there with a view over the city buzzing down below, under the lights changing the hue of his skin was that he had realized that there were already gaps and holes and cracks in him, and what he so yearned for was a sense of completion. A sense of completion that only this place seemed to be able to offer. 

He had become so caught up in his feverish train of thought, unable to see anything past the blue insides of the club ahead of him, that he would have had completely forgotten about the world and its rules were it not for a security guard speaking up, his voice cutting through the deafening thudding in Ed’s ears. “It’s you again!” one of the men in nicely tailored suits with the bar’s logo in the lapel uttered, moving forward from his spot. The sheer size of the man made Ed feel slightly weak in his knees, sweat instantly appearing on his temples as he prepared for what he suspected to be his swift demise. What had Riddler done? Whose wrong side had he gotten onto? But then the man stopped, big arms crossing over an even bigger chest, something like a hint of amusement brightening his face. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon. Alright then, let’s hear it.” 

Ed blinked, doing his best to suppress his fight-or-flight response and approach the situation rationally, ideally all the while not aggravating the three hundred pound gorilla in front of him. “I…” he stuttered, failing to make a sense of the little context he had just been given. “Let’s… let’s hear… what exactly?”

“The riddle,” the man replied, looking over his shoulder at his colleague, the other one clearly just as eager to hear it. That shouldn’t be surprising, really, as the position of a security guard didn’t seem like a particularly stimulating or interesting job, even for the location serving as the heart of the criminal underworld. These two were clearly starved for any sort of entertainment and a break from standing idly for hours, looking blankly at the faces of people passing by them without noticing them, only ever so often turning someone around and telling them to go. “You got me the last time, you got Bryan over there the last time, but we ain’t gonna let you go that easy this time. C’mon, bring it on, let’s hear it.”

A riddle. Riddler gave them _a puzzle_ \--something to occupy them with for a moment, a distraction from their boring role. _That_ was how he had gotten himself past them despite looking nothing like a criminal, or someone important, or at the very least someone with money. It was so simple, yet admittedly so brilliant. Were he not overwhelmed and scatterbrained, with his mind still not yet quite returned to its usually organized state, Ed would have had figured out that this was exactly what had happened right away. There were not many things that Ed and Riddler had had in common, but a special kind of love for puzzles was certainly one, and so using it as a means of gaining an entrance to the Lounge was only natural. His confidence increasing rapidly at the relieving realization, Ed straightened his back slightly, standing a little bit taller. “Oh,” he said then, allowing himself a small smirk and clearing his throat. “If the cat’s got what I need, I might be empty when I arrive. What am I?” 

Both of the security guards exchanged confused looks, scrunching their eyebrows on their thick foreheads as they devoted all of their brain functions to trying to think of a solution. The one called Bryan scratched his beard pensively, resting his meaty hand on his hip while his co-worker exhaled loudly through puckered lips, looking somewhere up to the high ceiling. It was one of the easiest riddles in his arsenal and Ed was right to think that there was no point in taking the risk of picking out something more difficult as those two were already struggling with something so basic. Two minutes and one helpless look was all it took for Bryan to give up and make a dismissive gesture. “Give it a rest, Rob, or you gonna pop a vein in your brain.” He sighed disbelievingly. “You got us again, riddle man. What is it?”

Making his voice as plain as he could and washing the triumph off of it, Ed answered calmly: “An envelope. The saying goes, “did the cat get your tongue”? If you don’t have a tongue, you can’t lick the edge of the envelope to seal it. So it could open during delivery and arrive empty.” 

Displeased, yet scoffing nonetheless, the guard called Rob stepped back to the side, clearing the path to the shimmering guts of the bar. “Clever motherfucker,” he mused under his nose, more to himself than anyone else. “Alright, a deal’s a deal. You can get in. But I’m gonna keep my eye on you,” he stated with a pretended threat to it, pointing his finger at the centre of Ed’s chest. “And I ain’t gonna let you skip by so easily, I’mma get you next time. Now go, before I change my mind.” He shook his head and then muttered, much more quietly: “A fucking envelope… how’d I not think of that?”

And, just like that, there he was again. Basked in the cold blue glow, with chatter and music filling up his ears, and the smell of vanilla and alcohol mixing in his nose he was back at the Iceberg Lounge and he left _alive_. Some great weight had been lifted off his shoulders as he stepped further inside, mingling in between the guests occupied with their drinkings and their deals, as he took his time to take a closer look at everything that surrounded him, taking in the full image of the Lounge. Whoever had been in charge of making the decisions regarding the decor clearly must had had an impeccable taste, as every piece of furniture, every polished ornament, every little trinket had been carefully chosen and placed in a way and order that created a meticulously structured picture. All of the walls, the floor, the ceiling, as well as a significant portion of the furniture had been all painted black or dark grey to create the illusion of dimness despite multiple sources of light, making the club appear more intimate and posh. The orange lamps shining under the counter of the bar and at the columns framing the leather booths diffused the everpresent blue tint only ever so slightly, their primary goal to lure the visitors’ eyes into deliberately picked spots. Everything there--from the clear tables designed for two people at most, through the stage for live music tucked away from the general field of view, all the way down to the way the light hitting the curtains to make them look like icicles--was serving a purpose, all the while creating an exclusive, and deeply seductive atmosphere that couldn’t quite be matched with anything Ed had ever experienced before in his life. It seemed like just being there, in the heavy air with a spicy, electrifying bite to it, could be enough to become intoxicated--drunk on the very essence of the Iceberg Lounge like it was an addictive pocket in the fabric of the universe, disconnected from everything else. 

Looking around this strange, almost dream-like place in awe, and with his head already beginning to buzz from all there was around him to take in, something was still missing. The very back of his mind itched, the spot hidden away in such a place that he couldn’t quite reach to scratch. Although the agitation he had been experiencing had mostly died down ad his heartbeat quieted down to its normal pace since crossing the threshold of the club, it didn’t feel quite right. There was tension in his scalp like his subconscious was trying to tell him that it wasn’t the time for him to rest and indulge just yet, like he wasn’t finished, like there was something left for him to do, but he simply couldn’t figure out what that was. But the night was young and he had only gotten there mere minutes ago, and so there was plenty of time for him to make sense of whatever was boiling up inside him. If there was one thing he was sure of, however, it was that he could certainly use a drink, and as he glanced around once more, his eyes were caught the bar at the very end of the room. Truly, choosing to arrange the bottles of alcohol into a rainbow gradient behind the counter proved itself to be yet another brilliant strategy, as the only pop of colour in the whole club was easyily drawing in the guests to refill their glasses. Before Ed could do as much as to take a single step towards it, there was suddenly a gloved hand clenching on his shoulder with enough strength to bruise. All the air instantly evaporated from his lungs as something in his brain clicked into place and he had realized exactly what he had been missing, what he had nearly completely forgotten about. Penguin. They had had a short conversation the night before, barely exchanging a few short sentences, but right from the beginning Penguin had been far from amused and Ed was quite lucky to get away with his life. And now, despite all of that, he had returned there, right back into the angered lion’s den. 

Ed turned his head to the side, only to be met with the sight of a man, staring at him ominously. He was completely bald, without even as much as eyebrows or lashes, and there was a certain tinge of madness in his black eyes. Just like almost all of Gotham, Ed also knew exactly who the man was. Victor Zsasz. “Hi,” he said cheerfully, dragging out the single syllable as he smiled, all sharp teeth. “Boss wants to talk to you. And this isn’t one of those situations where you can say no.” He sucked his teeth, his grip on Ed’s shoulder tightening even more as he turned him and dragged him towards one of the booths. “I almost feel sorry for you,” he added, the upbeat tone of his voice completely contradicting his words. 

Without being given the time to at least collect his thoughts at the sudden turn of events, Ed was pushed through the crowd straight into one of the leather booths, where he was once again faced with none other than Oswald Cobblepot himself. He was wearing a midnight black suit this time, with an equally dark shirt, his tie embroidered in purple flowers and a pristine waistcoat to match it, both his hands in fingerless gloves resting on top of his cane. “Thank you, Victor,” Penguin said to Zsasz, but his bright eyes were firmly pinning Ed to right where he was. “I have got to give it to you, you’ve got quite a nerve to come back here.” His mouth stretched in something that was supposed to be a smile, but looked more like a morbid grimace in the vibrant blue light. “Did you really think I would just let you waltz in here again? That I wouldn’t recognize you? Or does your employer simply pay you well enough to be so reckless?”

Nothing but a confused little “I…” managed to make it past Ed’s chapped lips at first while he felt pressure in his chest, his heart skipping five beats in a row and refusing to pick up the regular rhythm back again. “My employer? Why would-” he stopped abruptly as it suddenly made sense head, causing him to let out a sound of amusement. He scoffed and raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “Oh, no! Nobody… hired me to come here. I’m-”

“Oh, is that so? Just how dumb do you think I am?” Penguini nterrupted him, cocking his head to the side, the lines of his face becoming tense and even more sharply defined. He was getting angry at an expeditious rate, clearly not too pleased with the idea that there could potentially be someone in Gotham other than the G.C.P.D. wanting to take his throne and power away, or make a fool of him in the public’s eyes. “And I’m supposed to believe you? Just how stupid do you think I am? I warned you yesterday, yet here you are again. Now, there are only two options: I can have Victor do it quick, or I can make you regret the day you were born, I-”

With the words bubbling and swelling in his throat, almost suffocating him by the time he finally pushed them out, Ed blurted out: “I killed someone.” It was the first time he said it out loud, and although he expected it to taste dirty and foul, they were tangy and savoury and almost sweet. It felt _good_ to let it out. It felt _true_. “I… I killed someone.”

But Oswald Cobblepot didn’t seem to be impressed as the expression on his face hardly flinched or twitched, only his eyebrows raising higher on his forehead as he posed the question: “So?” he wanted to know, Ed’s confession taking him aback slightly, like this was one of the last things he was expecting to hear. He then laughed, making a vague gesture towards the rest of his club. “You’d be in luck to find here someone who _hasn’t_. Or is this…” he twisted his hand, “a very poor attempt at trying to threaten me?” 

Ed shook his head rapidly, suddenly realizing just how much danger he had put himself in. It wasn’t a game, it wasn’t investigating his deepest and darkest desires--his life was at stake here as the king of the criminal underworld with blood on his hands thought him to be some sort of a terrible spy. “No, no!” he exclaimed vigorously as his entire body tensed up, his stomach twisting and turning and sliding all the way up to his throat. “I, I’m not threatening you! I’m not here because of you I- what’s green and then red? Frogs in a blender- focus!” he clenched his fist as he exhaled, a shudder causing his shoulders to jump. Zsasz shifted by Penguin’s side, hooking his thumbs behind the straps of the holsters on his sides, fully prepared to put a bullet right between Ed’s eyes if he tried as much as to make a move. “I’m no one,” he stated. “I’m nobody, and I killed someone, and I didn’t know what to do, so I came here looking for something, and I-”

Penguin waved his fingers in front of his chest, silencing him just as effectively as the night before. “So?” he asked again. “I’m still not following, and frankly I’m becoming tired of this conversation. Does it look like a help group for first-time killers? We’re in Gotham, for Christ’s sake, you can find someone to get rid of the body in the phonebook. Under “B”, like “body disposal”.”

“I work in Forensics” Ed muttered as he rubbed at his temples, a splitting headache settling inside his skull. He was still shaking, not expecting this night to take such a violent turn, his strained nerves sizzling, igniting little flames of pain all over his brain and along the back of his neck. “I know how to dispose of a corpse.”

At his words, Penguin suddenly perked up and sat up straight, a glimmer flickering in his eyes as the cogs in his brain shifted and turned, something jumping into its rightful place. “You work in Forensics? At the G.C.P.D.?” He gave his henchman a brief look, as if to let him know to pay attention now, that whatever was going to be said now, he would be the one to verify it later. “What’s your name?”

Barely able to swallow around the block of ice frozen solid to the sides of his gullet, Ed nodded as to confirm the first two questions. “Nygma,” he answered then, licking over his dry lips. “Edward Nygma. I, uh- I’m a forensic scientist, I assess crime scenes, but I can also do autopsies, and I-” 

At that point, Penguin was no longer listening, instead turning to Zsasz who seemed to be only mildly interested in the whole conversation, if at all. "Give me your phone, Victor." Then seeing the expression on Zsasz's face, he groaned and rolled his eyes. "Your _work_ phone, you idiot! I couldn't care less about whatever private life you have." With a dose of disgust, as if it was contaminated, he took the device and placed in on the table in front of him, sliding it towards Ed. “There’s only one number in there, and it’s mine,” he said clearly, like he was talking to a child. “Take it, go back home, and wait for a call.” He stood up then, smoothing out his suit jacket. “Oh, and I hope for your sake that you weren’t lying,” he added, that parody of a smile spreading over his pale face all over again before he picked up his cane and simply walked away, leaving Ed completely dumbfounded, looking between the departing crimelord and the phone sitting right in front of him with nothing but static humming in his ears. It wasn’t for another five or ten minutes before he finally slumped back against the soft padding of the booth, his breathing coming in and out in sharp, quick sequences. He wasn’t going to die. It wasn’t the end. 

It was only the beginning. 


	4. four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [clutching the fic to his chest] I have nothing and I mean NOTHING in my defence writing this fic is the only coping mechanism I have right now! That's why I wrote this chapter so quickly and I decided that since I'm already well into chapter 5 I might as well upload this one sooner instead of the schedule I've set up for myself. So. There you have it. The last cockteasing chapter and we will get to the sexc stuff in the next one! As always: if you feel comfortable please do leave a comment <3 I love reading them so much and they motivate me to write <3 and I'm on Twitter @alekstraordinar where I just thirst for Oswald <3 Enjoy!

It took five days.

When he had been returning back home with his windows rolled down, the crisp air prickling his flushed-up cheeks and naked hands, it all had seemed like a hazy dream conceived in the grey spaces between the sleep and the awake or like a distorted illusion born from the questionable mixture of exhaustion, anxiety, and a certain dose of laboratory fumes. The sheer fact of his confrontation with Penguin had been surreal, and paired with the bizarre and unexpected turn it had taken, it had given him every reason possible to believe that what had happened in the sleek leather booth under the sharp blue lights had simply not been real. Had it not been for the phone heavying in his pocket like a rock weighing down a drowning man, he would have had been thoroughly convinced that his visit at the Iceberg Lounge had been nothing more than another twisted creation of his mind. But when he had woken up the next morning, the phone had still been there, sitting on the bedside table with only one number saved in its memory, the digits of which quickly burned themselves behind Ed’s closed lids. To think that in the span of merely seventy-two hours he had gone from being a law-abiding citizen with but a morbid fascination of the dark and the ugly, to becoming, what seemed to be, employed by the kingpin holding the underworld together, was almost absurd. Perhaps he would have had considered this to be a sort of punishment for his hubris or for the life he had taken, but the truth was that the whole ordeal _excited_ him and he had been already impatient to see whatever events were to shortly unfold before his very eyes. As he should have had expected, he had been right in his assumptions regarding the addictive qualities of Gotham’s other face. He had been perfectly aware of the hazard of playing with fire, but he had turned out to be weak, and there he was now, sliding his hand over the flames, almost yearning to get burned even if only to see what would happen to his fingertips.

He was utterly unable to tell whether it was the intoxicating atmosphere so lovingly crafted inside the Iceberg Lounge or the dangerously alluring character of Penguin himself that had made such a great impact on him, seeped into his brain like a poison to paralyze and overtake his mind. All he knew was that just like anxiety before, now the anticipation was steadily building up inside him, making him restless and agitated, shattering his every thought into pieces only to then pick them up and focus them on the phone sitting quietly at the bottom of his pocket. This little device with a black screen and a pretentious sticker of a firing rifle at the back of it was the one thing connecting him to the underworld, a reminder that it all had not been a dream and that there was no longer coming back to the life he had once had. It was as though he was suspended in an uncomfortable limbo, the dark matter of it clinging to his skin and staining his clothes, a weightless yet heavy state in which he no longer knew who he was and all he could do was to wait for someone to pull him out and tell him who he would become. During this time even Riddler had become quiet, and although for the vast majority of the time Ed had wished for nothing more than for the voice in his head to disappear, during these days the silence had been slowly driving him insane. He was used to being on his own with no one to talk to, the solitude of which had eventually become a somewhat comforting constant in his life, yet his body was itching, his finger hovering over the green call button on more than one occasion.

Friday had come and gone as though the lifechanging events had never happened, Saturday taking overtime just so he would have something to do with himself, Sunday spent over cups of tea and the silent black screen, Ed had been slowly beginning to fear that Penguin had simply forgotten about him. That was, of course, a ridiculous idea to have, as one certainly doesn’t come to a power great enough to be holding a ten-million-people city in the palm of the hand by forgetting about those who had come to cross them or could prove themselves to be a valuable asset. Ed had been desperately hoping that he had been was the latter, but the silence from Penguin’s side had been ringing in his ears more and more which each passing day with the phone remaining quiet. It had been on Monday when he had finally felt himself awake from the numbness, muscles aching and tingling as if he hadn’t used them in a while, his entire being going from its drowsiness to full alert in a matter of a split second as he had spotted a familiar figure entering the police station. Victor Zsasz himself, with his leather waistcoat and holsters tucked underneath his arms and his nonchalant attitude, had marched right inside without a care in the world, causing a slight spark of liveliness among the tired officers of the G.C.P.D. They had been used to Penguin’s and Fish’s henchmen swinging by with whatever errands their bosses had given them enough to not give them too much attention, unless the aforementioned bosses were accompanying, of course. Ed hadn’t had a single doubt in his mind that Zsasz had come there specifically to make sure that he hadn’t lied to Penguin. Zsasz’s face kept wandering off Alverez, whose life he had been so clearly trying to make more difficult, until the moment they had settled on Ed, a predatory smirk spreading on his face, his head nodding ever so slightly. 

And then, on Tuesday, Ed finally got a call. 

The sound and the vibration of the phone ringing suddenly after days of dead silence startled him so much that he almost knocked a rack filled with blood samples over onto the floor. His breathing stuttered ever so slightly as he took one of his gloves off and reached into his pocket, the entire world ceasing to exist except for the small device in his hand displaying a simple “boss” on its flashing screen. Clearing his throat and looking over his shoulder to make sure that nobody would be making an unannounced visit at the Forensics Laboratory, he pressed the little green button, not wanting the line to wait any longer. “Hello?” he asked with a dose of uncertainty to his tone, not quite able to believe that this would finally be the end of the excruciating wait. “This is Nygma speaking.”

There was an irritated groan on the other side. “I know who I’m calling,” Penguin hissed into the phone and the sound of his voice made something inside Ed jump, like all of his insides decided to heat up and twitch in unison. “Ugh, nevermind. I need you to be in the Harbour in an hour. Warehouse three. Don’t be late.” 

“But I’m still… working,” Ed wanted to note on his first instinct, but the last word was already spoken after the line had clicked, announcing the end of the call. He took the phone away from his ear and looked down at it, his body processing what had just taken place at a pace much quicker than his stunned mind. The muscles of his core tensed up to the verge of pain and then relaxed, the pace of his heart quickening rapidly, the ticking of the clock on the wall behind his back dissolving into unadulterated quietude. 

He remained in this state of almost bewildered detachment from reality in its entirety for three seconds at most before his mind snapped back into work, quickly replaying the conversation, analyzing the order and formulating a plan of action. It was already seven in the evening, the roads were not as crowded as they had been for the past two hours when most people typically return home from work, and so the drive from the police station to the Gotham Harbour would take roughly thirty minutes. Thirty-five, maybe forty if he took into the account finding a parking spot and then the warehouse number three. That left him with about twenty- no, nineteen minutes to come up with a believable excuse to leave work an hour early and to figure out what exactly Penguin wanted from him. He had perked up at the mention of Ed’s position at the Forensics Unit, so the odds were that he expected forensic expertise. It would only make sense but, then again, Penguin held most of the law enforcement by the throat, he could get any service from them he wanted. But that wouldn’t be a good look, it could diminish his image of the man at the top. An assessment then. Ed could take some of his equipment, put them in his bag. He kept some of it in the trunk of his car, too. Now for the excuse. What should he say? Who should he go to? Should he even ask for permission in the first place? He certainly couldn’t say he was feeling sick, it wasn’t likely, he had only taken one sick leave since he had started working at the station. He shouldn’t go to anyone, no. He wasn’t a child asking to go to the bathroom. He should just head for the exit, and if anyone were to ask why he was leaving early, he would simply say that he was done for the day and that all the remaining reports were left on his desk. Which was the truth--he had finished all his daily duties a good hour ago, and since then had been just trying to kill time before the clock struck eight. 

Sixteen minutes. He didn’t want to be late. Putting back the rack with samples into its rightful place and wrapping up his research, he moved quickly around the laboratory, touching at the bulge in his pocket every five seconds to make sure that no new calls had arrived while he was clattering around with the equipment.

Thirteen minutes left, he looked around the room, his eyes skipping from shelf to shelf, from cupboard to cupboard, trying to guess what he could possibly be needing. He wasn’t exactly a fan of some people’s idea of how forensics worked--expecting him to arrive at the crime scene, pull labelled evidence out of thin air, and then hand the mostly finished solution over to dimwitted officers for them to connect the numbered dots like children. Ed knew that Penguin was incomparably smarter than the drunken detectives employed at the G.C.P.D., but that didn’t automatically mean that he had the finest idea about the collection and analysis of evidence and so the lack of details and the vagueness of his call was frustrating. 

Ten minutes. There was no time to waste. He grabbed the stack of reports off the table and flicked the lights off, hurriedly flipping through the pages filled with text as he walked towards his desk tucked away by the end of the station’s hall. Although he sincerely doubted that anyone paid attention to him, especially now when it seemed as though everyone had already forgotten that Officer Dougherty had ever even existed, he still couldn’t help but look nervously around, keeping his head down when other employes walked past him. 

Eight minutes and he dropped his paperwork onto his desk, six minutes and he was already in the locker room, pulling his coat on, four minutes and he was making his way down to the exit, counting out the equipment he kept in his car when he suddenly stopped rapidly in his tracks, a shimmer of red catching in the corner of his eye. Risking a look to the side, he saw Kristen in the bullpen as she was leaving some files with one of the detectives, and she was cutting herself from the faceless crowd of officers, perps, and witnesses like a vibrant speck of crimson in the endless sea of dirty grey. She was smiling politely, but Ed knew her better than that, and even from the distance between them, he could see that she looked _sad_ like there was some sort of a burden on her shoulders, or like she hadn’t slept properly the night before. His body twitched as though he was going to make a move towards her, and he so wanted to--he wanted to walk over to her and ask what was wrong, to check up on her, to make sure that she was okay. During these past days, he had been so occupied with the obsessive thoughts whirling around the call from Penguin that he hadn’t even had the chance to come by her office and see how she was doing, and now he was beginning to miss her. Just as he was about to change his course, even if just for a minute, he suddenly became painfully aware of the weight and the edges of the phone digging into his palms, his fingers clenched tightly around it. The hand of the clock hanging above the Commissioner’s Office ticked.

Two minutes. He had to go. He kept a small sound of distress behind his tightly gritted teeth as he forced himself to turn back around and head for the exit. 

It was beginning to snow when he finally reached the Gotham Harbour twenty-eight minutes later, the gravel of the shabby parking lot crunching under the wheels of his car. Getting out, he locked the door behind him and stood up straight in the growing dark surrounding him, inhaling the brisk evening air. Only three times had he been there despite having had spent his entire life in this city, and every time it was strictly work-related, each instance something gruesome bringing him there. He suspected that this time would be no different as the familiar excitement was already beginning to spark up at the ends of his nerves and there would be no other reason for him to be there if it wasn’t for some sort of an assessment. He shuddered in the cold as he clasped his gloved hands together and made his way to the trunk of his car to retrieve his back with equipment, hoping that this would suffice for whatever problem Penguin was expecting him to solve. There was nobody in the tiny gatehouse with darkened windows, and judging by the few expensive-looking cars parked on the other side of the fence, Ed guessed that this only could mean that his new employer was already there. As he finally reached the gate of the warehouse number three, he could hear voices coming from the inside, amongst which he could clearly differentiate Penguin’s strangely soft tone, albeit he sounded agitated Taking one last deep breath, Ed pulled the door open and stepped inside. 

Immediately, there were at least five different guns pointing at him. He should have expected them, as the lack of the guards outside had already been suspicious, but being met with the sight of dark barrels staring up at him startled him nevertheless, almost causing him to drop his bag with all the delicate parts in it. “Don’t shoot!” he exclaimed defensively as he raised his arms up into the air. “It’s Nygma, I- I was supposed to come here, don’t shoot!” 

Penguin was standing in one of the small circles of light being thrown on the ground by the naked yellow lightbulbs hanging high above, the tops and the corners of the containers stacked on top of each other dissolving into the darkness. He was leaning heavily against his cane as he made a brief, dismissive gesture at his goons, signalling them to step back. “He’s fine, put those away,” he said, a good dose of irritation to his tone. “You’re right on time,” he then added, although the way in which he spoke those words suggested that the statement was far from being a sign of approval, but rather a half-mocked remark suggesting that Ed should have had gotten there earlier, ideally the second their call had ended. 

Only when he was no longer at the risk of being shot on the spot was when Ed could get a better look at the small group gathered slightly deeper into the warehouse, standing around something resting on the ground. There were a few people whose names probably even their employers’ didn’t bother to learn--thugs in cheap suits who were only in it for the money or for the thrill, good enough to serve as bodyguards, but too dull to be let on any important details. Then there were the more and the less familiar faces of those Ed had met personally before and of those he knew from the newspaper and the TV screen. Victor Zsasz in his over-the-top outfit sent him a dead-eyed smile from above Penguin’s shoulder, his hands resting on the straps of his holsters casually, like all of this was just a game for him. Butch Gilzean, with his cartoonishly large frame and his lead hand, rolled his eyes like he would rather be anywhere else than there as he tucked his unwanted gun away. And, of course, Fish Mooney herself, in the fur coat she had over her shoulders and the jewellery she wore she would look like a queen already, but it was her expression and the hard look in her different-coloured eyes was what truly expressed the kind of power she held. “Really, Oswald?” was all she said as she turned her gaze at her adoptive son, her eyebrows rising up on her flawless forehead. 

In response, Penguin exhaled loudly and rubbed as his face with exasperation. “Mother, could you _please_ not do this now?” he asked, as he looked at her with hardly held-back annoyance. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but this is the best option we have, and I fixed our problem, and I _really_ need you to stop questioning my decisions.” 

“We will see about that,” she told him, but still she raised her hands from where they were crossed over her chest, shrugging her slim shoulders. “But fine,” she added, somehow managing to put an emphasis on every single letter. “I trust your decisions. You built half of this empire on your own, after all. By all means, let’s see if your newest purchase can be of any value to us.”

Ed immediately decided that he very much did not like being referred to as a “purchase”, but at the same time, he was smart enough to know when it was better to simply keep his mouth shut. He just swallowed down hard, his throat seeming to close more and more with each second spent in the paralyzing uncertainty, as he waited for further instruction. The last thing he wanted to do was to make yet another wrong move, but none of the people present provided him with any further explanation, so all he knew about the reason for being summoned there was based solely on what he could guess from the context of the situation. “Well?” Penguin called out to him as he pointed to what was lying flat on the ground behind him. When he finally moved from where he was standing, Ed felt like his feet had already long sprouted roots deep into the concrete floor beneath him and he had to struggle to pry himself away from the immobility, his stomach jumping all the way up to his throat with each step. It wasn’t the same intoxicating sensation he had experienced when he had arrived at the Iceberg Lounge days ago, and it wasn’t the same rush of excitement he had felt at the sound of the phone ringing in his pocket, either. Both of those times he had been able to feel himself buzz like his blood was fizzing and singing a song in his veins to the accompaniment of his accelerating heart tuning in. It was a good feeling. It felt right. It felt pure. But now all he could feel was a deep-seated dread at the eyes staring down at him. He was intimidated and the button of his shirt was digging deep into his neck, his tie wrapped too tight, the uncertainty pressing down at his shoulders, trying to break him in half. 

Halfway to the ring of lights had he realized that the large object spread across the ground was a body. He kneeled down next to it, putting his bag by his side and pulled a pair of gloves out of his pocket. “What do you want me to look for?” he asked, gazing up at Penguin standing over him. “I wasn’t exactly let on… the details.”

“Well, I suppose you wouldn’t know since I managed to keep the papers quiet about it,” Penguin began, putting the cane in front of him and resting both of his hands on it. “There’s been a series of break-ins into my properties. _Our_ properties,” he corrected himself quickly. “Warehouses, safes, banks. Now, Victor and Butch here,” he turned towards them to send them a crushing smile, “have proven themselves to be _absolutely incompetent_ and can’t find out who’s behind all of this. The streets are remaining strangely quiet, since whoever is doing this is paying for the silence why _my_ money, so they don’t have to worry themselves about overpaying.” He poked the corpse with the tip of his cane. “This is one of them.”

The tenseness in Ed’s core was instantaneously alleviated, all the worry replaced with an unspeakable thrill bordering with joy as he fully understood what he had been called here for. Up until this very moment, he had been fearing that he was going to be presented with an impossible task, but here he was now, the good fortune smiling down at him yet again as he was handed a puzzle on a silver platter, tied with a ribbon and with a cherry on top. He could barely hold back the smile tickling the corners of his mouth as he nodded understandingly, sliding his glasses further up his nose. “And you want me to see if I can figure out who this is,” he said, more of a statement than a question, as it was obvious that this was _exactly_ what was expected of him. He didn’t even wait for a response, his eyes sliding down to the body in front of him, whatever answer Penguin was giving him shooting over his ears as he focused completely on the task at hand. Right, then. Male. White. Roughly five-feet-then. Maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. Cause of death, five- no, six bullets to the chest. A bit excessive, but it got the job done. He was in a rugged state, even for someone dead, the unevenly cut hair and messy stubble completely not fitting the expensive suit he was wearing. “What was the ratio of the break-ins?” Ed asked, not raising his head up.

After a brief second of silence, Fish spoke up, suspicion all over the single syllable: “Why?” 

His train of thoughts was exponentially picking up its pace, the leads becoming clearer before his very eyes, all the overheard conversations from the station playing back in his head, mind reaching to all the files he had read over the course of the past weeks. He took a pen out of his breast pocket and pushed the folds of the corpse’s suit jacket back, squinting his eyes as he looked at the tag with the tailor’s logo by the collar of it. _Bingo_. “Because if the break-ins to the places where the money is directly stored were significantly higher than to any other kind of establishment you own,” Ed answered, at last, pulling at the tag with his pen, “then you’ve gotten yourself the Red Hood Gang. Well,” he clicked his tongue, “Red Hood Gang wannabes. Again. It’s the third time around, you’d think that Gotham gangs would come up with a more original name to call themselves by now.” 

Butch Gilzean scoffed loudly. “Red Hood Gang? Come on!” He shook his head as he looked between his bosses’ stern faces. “Seriously? You believe this clown? Red Hood Gang was around _two_ times, and each one of those times they wore _red hoods_. This… this is just some-”

Groaning with frustration, Ed interrupted him with a vigorous wave of his hand. “They’re not _actually_ the Red Hood Gang, that’s what the word “wannabe” _means_ ,” he explained as he tucked his pen behind his ear. “There is no affiliation between them, all of the members of the first and the second Gang are dead, and as far as the files go, none of them had any relatives to carry on their questionable legacy. _But_ ,” he raised his finger as he stood up from the ground, still speaking directly to Gilzean, his words pulsating with the excitement and the almost twisted need to prove that he was right, “that is not public information and neither is the identity of the Gang members. The pattern of behaviour is almost identical, their target is the same, their _goal_ is the same, and all of that is on top of the fact that they get their clothes from the same tailor as the Gang number two.” Ed stopped for a moment, taking a quick inhale, still unable to stop his hands from gesticulating. “The Red Hood Gang was a _phenomenon_ , there were people _fascinated_ with them, who wanted to _be_ like them. Now, if you still held a grudge against someone who ran this city, would you rather look for allies as your sad, little, weak self, or would you rather craft a lie about yourself and build a group based on an image that has already once-”

“Hey, I don’t care how smart you are, but take one more step and I’ll crush your skull like a rotten watermelon.”

Blinking, Ed suddenly realized just how dangerously close Gilzean he had gotten in the midst of his heated explanation. Definitely too close for his own comfort, he thought tho himself as he quickly backed away, the embarrassment burning up in his ears. He bit the inside of his lip as he rubbed at his forehead, right above his eyebrow. “I can’t give you a name,” he stated, looking anywhere but at the people who stared at him as intently as if they wanted to drill a hole in his flesh with only their gazes. “But Red Hood fanboys weren’t exactly quiet about it, it shouldn’t be difficult to track one of the louder ones down. And- and there is the tailor-” his voice trailed off as he finally risked a glance at Penguin. The smile that blossomed on his face was a true one, reaching all the way up to his eyes, small wrinkles cracking around them. He seemed _pleased_ , and the realization of this made something hot stir deep inside Ed’s guts.

He did well.


	5. five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look,,, I know,,, I KNOW these chapters just keep on getting longer but what can I say there's just a lot to be told and described so I just ~go with the flow~ anyway we've finally gotten to THE GOOD CUSH™ so I hope y'all are gonna enjoy this very sexy meal I've prepared for you <3 as always I'd LOVE to hear your thoughts in the comments <3 and you can catch me on Twitter @alekstraordinar <3

He did not expect it to escalate this way. 

For the past weeks, Ed had been living in a way that could only be properly described as leading a double life. To those of the employees of the G.C.P.D. who would care enough to look at or speak to him, he had remained the same socially ungraceful and quirky, not to say weird or bizarre, forensic scientist they sometimes had the questionable pleasure of interacting with. The majority of his days, too, continued to pass in the same, unchanged and somewhat tedious manner--they would start with a cup of coffee and a newspaper, and then through the drive to work, they would continue into hours spent at the station on analyzing the gathered evidence, writing reports, and the rather occasional call into the field to assess a crime scene. On the inside, however, there had been changes happening to him, and he had been observing them with great interest, impatiently awaiting further developments in the same fashion in which he had been looking forward to the end of his shifts so he could flip the switch and step into the other, darker side of his life. By the time a month had passed since the first visit there, Ed had become a sort of a regular at the Iceberg Lounge, coming there frequently enough to feed and fuel the mesmerized state of fascination the club had been continuously putting him in, but not often enough to be recognized by those who had spend most of their evenings there. It was intoxicating to see the underbelly of Gotham from up close, to be able to observe the currents in which the whispered deals and fragile alliances had moved in the open booths, to see the cogs and the pistons of the criminal world move and turn. And, of course, to be near the man who built all of it from the ground up and made the whole machine of it function.

As the weeks of being employed by Penguin had passed by, Ed had been becoming increasingly more certain that what he had first thought to be the prelude to his fall had changed its shape to now present the image of barely an introduction, a new start. For the first time in his life, he had felt like he had a place where he belonged, like a puzzle piece fitting perfectly in its place to help create a fuller image. Each time he had submerged himself in the underworld had been like a shot of adrenaline mixed with concentrated dopamine and it made him feel _alive_. It was like there had always been something sleeping deep inside him, buried under layers of trauma, self-consciousness, and the stiff morals everyone is being taught as they grow, but which later turn out to be meaningless and empty. The best part of this all, however, had not been the thrill of working so closely to the most powerful man in the city, nor a pay better than the G.C.P.D. could ever offer him, no. The best part of playing his newfound role in the criminal world had been the fact that he was _seen_. He was still doing his job, yes, fulfilling the duties he was being given with the expectations of getting it done quickly and properly, but unlike at the police station, now he was being properly appreciated for his work. He was told that he did well, he was praised, and that had quickly turned out to be the very thing that mattered to him the most in this new and twisted world he had become a part of. When he had plunged his pocketknife into Officer Dougherty‘s stomach, cutting through the major blood vessels in his liver, Ed had thought that no matter how well he would cover his tracks, there was no coming back from this deed and he would never be the same person again. He was right, but the change had only been for the better. 

However, in the midst of all the euphoria and unadulterated joy this new path had been bringing him, there had also been something more… disturbing feelings brewing up inside of him. He had not been able to point exactly where it had started, things of such nature always coming to his attention with a delay, but somewhere along the way, Ed had begun experiencing certain… feelings. They had not been clear or obvious from the start, finding their beginnings in an approving nod, a hand on his shoulder, or simple two words spoken in a softer tone: “ _good job_.” Perhaps if it hadn’t been for a part of himself he had always struggled with, or the fear of hearing mocking ridicule from the inside of his own head, he would have recognized it early enough to nip it at the bud. It wasn’t until after he had begun coming up with riddles and daydreaming a plan of crafting the perfect puzzle that, to his terror, he had realized that he had been repeating the same pattern of behaviour he had been once exhibiting towards Kristen. The recognition of this gave him a brief moment of sobriety from the intoxicating mist of power and mystery Penguin had been spreading around, wearing it almost like a badge of pride, but by that time it had already been too late. Ed had let the rush of excitement and the tingling of praise get to him, seduce him, and before he even knew it, a soft and a fuzzy thing had started blossoming in his throat, nearly making him choke whenever he was called for a job, gasp for air as he sat in the Iceberg Lounge, forcing himself to avert his eyes from the crisp lines of the dark suits and the clear angles of the cheekbones. Just when he thought that he had finally freed himself from all the things that had been dragging him down and making his life insufferable at times, Ed had found himself completely infatuated with Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. 

There was no denying to the existence or the nature of his feelings, and the awareness of it terrified him. He was _not_ good at hiding this sort of thing, and if the way it impacted his behaviour had made Kristen, who would never hurt a fly, lose her temper on him, he did not even want to think what he could be met with if Penguin was ever to find out. Were any of this rational or logical, were it in the realm of the things he was able to fully comprehend and grasp, he would understand that the safest solution to this predicament would be to stay away, to keep himself at a distance, to limit the contact with what he so longed for to the necessary minimum and wait for the unfortunate crush to whither and die down. Unfortunately, staying away from the things he _knew_ he should stay away from wasn’t Ed’s strong suit, either, and willingly quitting his visits at the Iceberg Lounge would be just as, if not more difficult than quitting cigarettes. He simply could not deprive himself of going there again, to sit under the blue lights in the hopes that that night would be another one of those when Penguin was out in one of the booths instead of being hidden behind the doors of his office. And although his flight-or-fight response was setting off all the alarms and red flags in his brain as he stood in the elevator, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes watching the numbers changing above the door, he did not want to turn back. It did not feel like there was turning back for him anymore. It was not Penguin’s club and its almost hypnotizing atmosphere that was like a drug. It was _him_. 

Pinging of the elevator pulled him out of the swirling thoughts billowing inside his skull and put him back in the present, unseeing eyes focused on some spot at the other end of the corridor. He sighed deeply as he stepped outside, his heartbeat already accelerating and pulsating in his ears as he turned towards the entrance to the Iceberg Lounge, fingers playing with a stray piece of string in his pocket. It was one of the days when it seemed that only a visit at the club could somehow remedy the absolutely foul mood he had been put in by one of the detectives at the station who so clearly took pleasure in talking him down and calling him names. Being in his late twenties, Ed was one of the youngest people employed at the G.C.P.D., most of the higher-ranking officers he had to interact with over twice his age, yet still, there were moments when it felt as if he was still in high school--still, the same scrawny, big-eyed boy subjected to bullying with not enough courage to stand up for himself. Every so often he tried to tell himself that it’s just teasing and that as an adult he shouldn’t take it so personally, but it was a part of him that had always been vulnerable and susceptible to hurt. He just needed a drink. A drink, and if he were lucky enough, a yearning gaze thrown in Penguin’s direction when he wasn’t looking. 

He was halfway through the corridor when he noticed that something was off, that it seemed to be one of the nights when the Lounge was not open to the guests--there was no music being played from the inside, there were no raised voices to be heard, and no people going to or from the entrance, not a single soul in sight spare for the security guards keeping their post as always. Ed’s heart sunk a little bit in his chest at the realization, his already miserable day becoming even worse. He hadn’t heard that something was supposed to be taking place tonight, and he hadn’t been told either, which could only mean that whatever was taking place, it was only for Penguin’s inner circle, and- “You can go in,” one of the guards, Wesley, spoke up as he saw Ed approaching, nodding his bald head towards the closed door. “Boss said to let you in if you show up.” 

Taken aback by surprise, Ed pointed his finger at his chest as he twitched to look over his shoulder, although he logically knew that there could not be another person except him in the hallways. “Me? Oh-” he just muttered, uncertain what to do, the hairs at the back of his neck standing up as if he was sensing danger. There was familiar prickling in the tips of his fingers as he moved from where he was standing, his stomach turning and growling like a hungry animal starving for something unnamed and unidentified, but what he knew was waiting for him on the other side of the door. And when he stepped inside, the door falling shut behind him, he could barely recognize the club without the vibrant crowd of guests sharing colourful drinks, without the vibrations of music going through the dark walls, and without the familiar intense blue lights turning the establishment into a place ripped from a feverish dream. That night, the lights were brighter and more toned, there was not a single note being played, and present was only a handful of people--Victor Zsasz standing out the most, with a few of his people and someone between them kneeling in something that Ed could only suspect was their own blood. 

“Oh, would you look at what the cat dragged,” Zsasz greeted him in the same manner as always, with a slightly mocking note to his voice and smiling in a wolfish way, head tilted slightly to the side. “Boss will be glad you decided to swing by, we probably wouldn’t get this greasy little rat so quickly without your help.” To illustrate who he was talking about as if it wasn’t obvious, he slapped his hand against the head the person kneeling next to him, the unfortunate soul making a startled noise. Knowing Zsasz’s textbook sadistic tendencies, Ed almost felt sorry for them. Almost. If they were there, counting down the seconds until their demise on the hands of Gotham’s best assassin, it could only mean that they had wronged Penguin and now it was the time to pay the price for it. “And do help yourself, drinks are on the house,” Zsasz added, waving his arm vaguely towards the counter, behind which the bartender was watching the whole scene with a remarkably bored expression on her face. 

But before Ed had the chance to decide to either go for a drink or to turn around and go back home, the door leading to Penguin’s office swung open and the king of Gotham himself stepped outside, in the grey striped suit that looked so good on him but without the jacket, two leather belts wrapped around his upper arms. “Let’s just get this-” he began but stopped rapidly as he took a look at the club, a satisfied smile spreading on his face, making his eyes shine and Ed’s knees bucked slightly. “Ed, so glad you decided to come by,” he said in a cheery tone as he limped from where he was standing towards Zsasz. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight.”

His words made something frantically hot burst up inside Ed’s guts, verging on the thin line between pain and pleasure, nearly causing him to fold in half. “I,” he began slowly, carefully, “I didn’t know it would be closed enough. I wasn’t told.”

Penguin made an amused sound as he turned on the sole of his good foot and vigorously dug the tip of his cane into the beaten-up man’s thigh. “Do you know who this is?” This is Jacob. Jacob thought that it would be a _splendid_ idea to forge my licences.” He put more of his weight onto the cane. “Because, as we know, it ended _so well_ for the last guy who tried it. Jacob thought he was smarter than me, and now he’s going to play an important role in Gotham’s life by serving. As. An. Example.” To accentuate each one of his words, he leaned further and further, the metal tip pressing through the fabric and digging into flesh with unpleasant squelching and pained groans. Certain that he had made his point perfectly clear, Penguin moved again, returning to the spot in which Ed had still been standing, almost frozen, and put his hand on Ed’s shoulder, squeezing it just a little. “And that’s thanks to you. Now, I can appreciate it when someone gets their job done properly and you, my friend, have outdone yourself this time. Truly, I have no idea how you’ve managed to figure this one out, but _well done_.” 

Increased heartbeat. Difficulties breathing. Blurry vision. Shaking. Random muscle twitching. Was he having a panic attack? Or was he just reacting like a schoolgirl whose crush looked at her briefly in the cafeteria? If it wasn’t anxiety, it certainly felt close enough to it for Ed’s throat to close up and his tongue to swell behind his rattling teeth. “Clues,” he managed to wheeze out, somehow, even though the words came out bloated and disfigured, only awkwardly resembling their intended shape. “They always… uh, they always leave clues, you just have to know where to look.”

As Penguin opened his mouth to respond, without a doubt another praise already at the back of his throat, Zsasz suddenly interrupted him. “Aw, boss,” he chirped from where he was standing, sick delight doused all over his voice in the same manner as always when something horrible was about to happen. “He’s blushing, I think he’s got a crush on you! But… can I take this maggot outside and squash him with my boot now?”

Panic attack. This was _definitely_ a panic attack. Ed flinched as soon as he heard the remark, a high-pitched noise immediately rising up in his ears ringing loudly enough to make black spots appear in front of his eyes and his heart to stutter in its rapid pace. “I-” he stammered as he faltered back, both of his hands at the level of his chest in a defensive manner, like he could just push away the words that had just been spoken and not acknowledge them, let them dissolve into the air unheard by anyone at all. “I- it’s not- I just-” he tried scrambling something from the roaring mess his brain had just fallen apart into, to form a coherent sentence but all of his attempts were turning out futile and all of his words into dust. There was something the size of a tennis ball in his gullet clogging up his airways and something the texture of shattered glass cutting through his lungs, depriving him of oxygen and making his head spin. The air in the Iceberg Lounge had become dead quiet, like everyone had stopped their breaths in unison, letting the stillness cover them tightly and seal them in its thick quiescence. It could not be real. It could not have had just happened. It was a dream, it was just a bad dream and he was going to wake up any second now, back in his bed with tangled covers wrapped around his limbs, sweat covering his forehead, and a foul taste in his mouth. Any second now. Any second. 

Words uttered by Penguin cut sharply through the tenseness around them like a hot knife, the plush sound of his voice loud like a thundering explosion in the midst of the motionless silence. “Have fun, Victor,” he uttered, and although he spoke to his henchman, his green-blue eyes were staring intently at Ed, their usually cold surface glistening and shimmering with something warmer and redder, something unspeakable and scandalous, something that shouldn’t be spoken out loud. They were still standing at an arm’s reach but each cell of Ed’s body was shaking and vibrating violently, making it impossible to focus his vision on anything and see Penguin’s face clearly, yet at the same time, he could not look away for as much as blink, fearing that if he let his lids fall shut even for a split second, it would be his end. “Can you play?”

Sticky hotness covered the very tips of Ed’s fingers where he dug his nails into the palms so deep they bled, the stinging of freshly formed wounds barely getting to him through the throbbing anxiety filling up every cell of his body. He couldn’t even register Zsasz and his people dragging the foolish forger out of the club, all of his attention focused solely on the man standing in front of him, looking at him with curiosity and expectation as if Ed was some sort of a scared laboratory animal and he wanted to see what would happen if he was poked. “I…” he finally managed to drag a single syllable through the smouldering chunk in his throat filling up his mouth with bitter smoke. “I, can I- can I play what?” 

“An instrument,” Penguin told him as he tapped his cane against the floor with a clang, one of his hands disappearing in the pocket of his pants as he seemingly almost lost his interest, wandering off to the couch surrounding the isle in the middle of the club and settling down on it. He pulled out what appeared to be a thin silver case, toying with it for a moment. “There’s a piano up on the stage,” he continued as he pulled a cigarette out and stuffed into one of the ends of a black holder that somehow appeared out of the thin air. “A guitar, a drumset, a violin. Even a cello.” From his tight waistcoat, he pulled out a lighter, igniting the tip of his cigarette, blue cloud of smoke floating around his pale face. “I want you to play something for me. If you can’t play any of the instrument, sing. And if you can’t sing…” he exhaled as he made himself more comfortable in his seat, crooked foot resting on his knee, shoulders relaxing. “ _Try._ ” 

Ed swallowed audibly, his mouth dry as he looked over at the scene situated to the side from the bar and its orange lights and rainbow bottles, half-hidden behind shimmering, silky curtains. There were live performances taking place on it during almost every one of his visits, but now it stood empty and quiet, inviting him with the glistening caught on the opened piano’s lid and a promise of something great. He _could_ play. When he had been still in school, he had used to take extracurriculars, both from his hunger for knowledge and an excuse to stay away from home for as much time as he possibly could. Countless hours had he spent in his school’s music room when there had been nobody else there, music providing him with the strange kind of comfort he could never quite find between the book pages or in the curves of riddles. He _could_ play and he could sing, and not even half as bad at that, and if Penguin wanted him to give him a performance he could not, and he did not _want_ to say no. Although it was a terrifying thought to have, Ed struggled to believe that this could serve as possible means of diffusing the atmosphere Zsasz’s words had created, and if anything it could only further heighten the heaviness in the air. But it was not the time, and he was not in the right shape to make his assumptions, the usually everpresent train of thoughts constantly running at a great speed in his brain was now slowing down, coming almost to a halt. He did not want to think, for he feared the conclusion he would come to.

With his steps uncertain and his knees weak like they were made of cotton candy, he made his way across the Lounge’s polished floor and stepped up onto the stage, taking a seat at the piano, all the while there was a pair of eyes watching him intently. His trembling fingers with blood-stained tips and scarlet-edged nails hovered over the keyboard as he considered his possibilities. Penguin was still looking at him and he could feel the weight of that gaze on his shoulders and neck, like hands clenching around his muscles and rendering him almost immobile. If this was a game, he had to play his cards with even more caution than ever before--coming to the club for the first time and avoiding execution during the second seeming like a child’s play in comparison to what he had to do now. He could go about it safely, play something classic but appropriate, Beethoven or Mozart perhaps, he could even play “Chopsticks” and hope that it was amusing enough. He could do that, or he could do something risky, something there might not be coming back from anymore. But he was already long gone and the person he had once been was long gone. He licked over his dry lips and let his fingers press down.

Music fluttering from under his fingertips was slow and dark, its heavy beating full of longing spread across the Iceberg Lounge and filled it up to the brim, becoming one with the very essence of it, settling in the umbrella-shaped chandeliers, between the burning candles, and across the leather booths. “ _I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust_ ,” he began, but his voice was small and rusty like the crescent-shaped stains his fingers were leaving on the blinding white of the keys. A shaky inhale and nervous clearing of his throat swallowed the next line, but the music never stopped, the initially shaky notes now becoming clearer and more confident. “ _If you like your coffee hot, let me be your coffee pot_ ,” his voice was louder now, its volume increasing to match the sound of the piano and further amplified by the acoustic, the vibration of it dancing in his throat and yearning playing with his heart deep in his chest. “ _You call the shots, babe, I just wanna be yours_ ” he sang, and he no longer knew if he was giving a performance or saying the things he had been too scared to even properly formulate in his head, his eyes falling shut as he allowed himself to get completely drunk on the irresistible power this place had had over him since the very beginning. “ _S_ _ecrets I have held in my heart, are harder to hide than I thought, maybe I just wanna be yours._ ” The breath leaving his body was almost one of relief while the music made his body relax into its sound and its words, the shape of them comfortable, the world beyond them nonexistent. “ _I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours_ …”

From that point he began to quiet down, returning back from the haze he had unintentionally put himself in, but although he became silent, he was still playing, unsure of what would happen if he had stopped. The hungry thing that appeared to had been satisfied for ten minutes was awake again, wiggling and turning, clawing at his insides and trying to get out. His heart was still thrashing violently, as though it wanted to threaten him with broken ribs and bruised lungs when he looked back to the inside of the club, not missing a single note of the melody he was still tenaciously playing. Penguin was sitting in the exact same position as before, with the only difference being a new, freshly lit cigarette sitting at the tip of the holder he had between his slim fingers. Seeing Ed look down to him, he tilted his head slightly back and without missing a beat, he ordered: “Seduce me.”

The music stopped abruptly when Ed’s hands crashed into the keys, the piano giving a cacophonous noise before falling quiet. It felt like his body and his mind were completely unable to process the command, his body becoming numb to match the black-and-white static buzzing in his brain. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t _breathe_. “I d- what?” he asked, hoping that he had just misheard it, hoping that it was his imagination playing tricks on him, hoping that it was another one of the things he was seeing and hearing but that had never taken place outside his own head. He stared and Penguin and Penguin stared back at him, and Ed was certain that he was playing with him to the same extent in which he was sure that he would not hear the order again and that for his own sake, he should follow. And, god, he wanted to follow, because in that moment there was not a single thing in his entire world other than the frantic, gut-wrenching want to do as he was told, to do well, to please. He suddenly became aware just how hot he felt, his glasses sliding down his nose and a bead of sweat running down his neck and disappearing behind the collar of his shirt. He had to have a plan. He had always had a plan, but now he was only being given second in a state of hypnotizing intoxication to know what to do. He didn’t.

He didn’t, and so he could only hope that his eagerness would make up for the lack of experience or the clue how to go about things of such nature. It took force for him to pry himself away from the piano and slowly get off the stage, and during that time the short distance between the steps and the couches grew before him to resemble the length of a seemingly endless tunnel, the time slowed down and forced him to spend hours marching before he had finally reached his destination. All of this time, Penguin’s piercing gaze did not leave his form for even half a second, following him, stalking him almost like a predator preparing to attack his prey, trying to predict its next move. When Ed sat down next to him, close enough so their knees would touch yet so far away so they wouldn’t breathe the same air, he no longer felt like real, and all of his surroundings were fogged, like he was in a dream. With all the strength he still had in his fizzing, slowly dissipating body, he managed to not break the heavy eye contact as he blindly reached for Penguin’s hand, fingers grazing over the soft leather of his gloves ever so slightly as he took the smooth cigarette holder into his own hand. They had to be laced with something, Ed had a fleeting thought while his lungs burned, there was no other reason for his head to become so light and so dizzy. He exhaled the smoke slowly as he could feel himself drowning in the bright green-blue, completely and utterly seduced by their depth and shine and whatever was lurking at their edges. His entire life was likely at stake here, but all he could focus on was the heat rising up in all of his body, burning away any caution he could possibly have, replaced by the desperate need to earn praise. Heart no longer speeding in his chest, but now sliding up to his throat along with the rest of his stirring, boiling guts, he leaned closely in, his nose brushing against the shell of Penguin’s ear as he let out a half-whining, half-begging whisper born from the depths of every bit of held-back and carefully hidden desire: “ _Daddy._ ” 

A hand snapped forward and clenched tightly around his tie to tug at it and pull him to the side in a very much not-so-gentle manner, the dreamlike haziness and heated intensity of the moment shattered. Penguin was looking at him with an indecipherable expression on his freckled face, his lips tightly pressed into a firm line, his eyes slightly squinching as they looked into Ed’s panicked ones. But then he smiled, a dimple sharply creasing one of his cheeks, teeth showing. He tugged once more, as if for good measure.

“That will do.”


	6. six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii I know that this one is a bit of a filler but what can I tell you--fillers are important sometimes to regulate the pace of the story and we don’t want to be over with all of the plot within 10 chapters now do we? Right then I’m uploading this chapter while I’m already writing chap7 and let’s just say that I can no longer promise how long the chapters are gonna be--seems like some are gonna be barely 3.5k and some are gonna be twice that it all depends on how much plot and story I want to fit in each one. That being said--fret not after this slower chapter I am cooking a delicious meal for y’all so strap in and hope you enjoy! <3 as always I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments <3 and I’m on Twitter @alekstraordinar <3

It did not seem real.

As he returned to the events of the previous night, he had found himself unable to replay them fully, like there was a stain on the glossy surface of a film or a deep scratch cutting through the rows of a record, rendering him incapable of seeing the whole picture, and leaving him with only loose pieces to make a sense of. He had always been good with puzzles, a special kind of love burning deep within that had not been quenched by the pains of growing up, and persisted through the years providing him with comfort and a needed escape from the grayscale of the harsh world outside. They had become his trademark of sorts, something people immediately associated with him when being asked, and although he suspected that it had been more of a coping mechanism for him, he had always been glad that there was something that, at its core, was inherently  _ his _ . He had always been good with puzzles, and since he had been sharing the inside of his head with someone else for as long as he could remember, he had grown accustomed to connecting, drawing, and stitching together information where he could only find empty spaces. Whether it was putting together a jigsaw without ever having had seen what was supposed to be on the picture, or retracing his steps to figure out how Riddler had gotten him in trouble this time, solving these sorts of things had always been his strong suit. He hardly even needed to be provided with context for the assessments he had been assigned to, more than able to figure everything out on his own, to find and then connect the dots and see the explanation to the predicaments form before his eyes. That was what had made him an exceptional forensic scientist and an asset to the G.C.P.D., that was why he had been spared for the sake of being employed by the most powerful crimelord in Gotham, and that was the reason why he couldn’t even begin to comprehend why his mind refused to process and accept what he had, at least to a certain degree, known was the truth.

Time and time again had he tried to follow what had unfolded in the Iceberg Lounge, and with each revision, he had been growing frustrated, increasingly convinced that he had missed a crucial step or an important point, some sort of a vital binder between the before and the after, something that would explain why the night had taken such a turn. Without that transitional part so persistently slipping through his fingers and sliding out of his peripheral vision, Ed simply could not find an explanation for what had happened and for what had followed and what was still awaiting for him ahead in the future. The forger, the praise, the blank space, the song, the cigarette. The forger, the praise, the blank space, the song, the cigarette. The forger, the praise, the blank space, the song, the cigarette. All of this had been playing on a constant loop between his ears, over and over and over again, chasing all the hope for a night’s sleep off his tired face, making hot coffee taste cold in his numb mouth, causing the letters of the labels of evidence stir and blur before his eyes. There had been not a single thing he could properly put his mind on since he had left the club, as the memories had not even faded away and blended into the background to play at the back of his head like white noise he would only be vaguely aware of. Instead, they had stayed in sharp focus and crystal clear image, burning themselves on the insides of his lids and going even as far as bringing the faint smell of vanilla-scented candles, expensive cigarettes, and subtle cologne to itch in his nose. He could almost still feel the way each note throbbing from under his fingers resonated through his bones, the way his lungs and tongue burned from the sweet taste of blue smoke, the way his entire being vibrated with yearning the very second it sensed the warmth of Penguin’s body. But still, there had been something missing, something that would explain it, something that would give a reason for it, something that would make it logical. Something that would help him understand  _ why _ .

Perhaps it had been the lack of closure or any sort of a further explanation that had been gnawing at him until he was raw and tender, driving him to the verge of insanity with aching. Just seconds after Penguin had expressed his approval of Ed’s performance, fingers wrapped around the slick fabric of his tie and something part-excitement, part-wariness in those brilliant icy eyes, they had been interrupted by Zsasz returning to the club, a splash of scarlet on his white cheek. As cheerful as always, he had made his way to the bar and hopped onto one of the barstools, announcing that the job had been done, but that there still had been the forager’s accomplices out there in the streets, and that he had thought that his boss should know about it. From where he had been sitting, so very close yet so painfully far, Ed could see the almost instantaneous change on Penguin’s face--his features tensing, his cheeks turning red, his bottom teeth showing as he grit them so hard they made an unpleasant crack. Whatever atmosphere pretending to be a caricature of intimacy Ed had managed to create had been shattered entirely, the so very deeply craved attention shifted somewhere entirely and irrevocably. He had been so violently and suddenly pulled out of that feverish almost dream-like state that he had been unable to catch his breath at first, needing a few second to remember that he had still been there, that he had still been a person, that he had still been real. He could see just how much he was shaking from being overwhelmed and overstimulated, his hands curled into tight fists twitching where they had rested on his lap, a thin trail of blood slithering down his wrist. Penguin had half a mind to turn back at him in the midst of yelling at Zsasz, wave a hand at him dismissively and tell him to come back to the club the next evening and that was it.

And there he was now, hiding in the police station’s bathroom where he stood by the sink washing his glasses under a stream of cold water until his fingers hurt, counting down the seconds until his shift would finally end. He had been almost completely useless so far that day, sitting over the files he had been given without seeing them or seeing anything  _ in  _ them, all attempts at analyzing the data just pushing the rewind button in his brain, and there he was again, singing a song by the Iceberg’s piano. The longer he had been staying in this uncomfortable and somewhat distressing state of uncertainty, the more agitated he had been becoming, even more so after he had just killed Officer Dougherty. Tom Doughtery… to think that all of this had started with that deplorable scum was putting a bad taste in Ed’s mouth, almost like owed something to that-

“You doing alright, Ed?” 

Right away, the fine hairs on Ed’s hands and wrists bristled, the muscles of his core tensing up as he heard the familiar voice coming from right behind his back. He had been so occupied with his own thoughts that he hadn’t even heard anyone coming in, let alone notice one of the very few people in the entire G.C.P.D. who could actually be bright enough to figure out that something was happening with him. Although he felt exhausted and all he wanted to do was to return to his lab and lock himself in there to await the end of the shift, Ed forced a smile as he turned the faucet off, shaking droplets of water off the lenses of his glasses. “Detective Gordon,” he greeted one of his coworkers reluctantly, looking at his blurry silhouette in the mirror. “Can I help you?”

It was clear from the way he moved that whatever his intentions were, he didn’t quite know how to go about this, like he was just doing something someone else had put him up to, and that he would very much rather be anywhere else than here. “I… look,” Gordon began, resting both of his hands on his hips, stepping a little bit closer but still keeping a safe distance. “I don’t wanna make things awkward. I know we’re just colleagues but Lee… she really likes you, and she says she’s a bit worried because you seemed troubled, so… She, uh, she just wanted me to check up on you, that’s all.” 

Ah. Of course. If there was at least one person in this police station who had some sort of positive or warm feelings towards Ed, no matter how small or superficial they could be, it was Lee Thompkins. She had been awfully nice to him this far--saying hello, guessing the answers to his riddles, and letting him stay in the M.E.’s lab to either just look around to conduct his own research. It seemed that her only flaw was being in love with Jim Gordon, and although Ed felt a small pang of guilt at the thought, as Gordon had never been anywhere as needlessly rude to him as Bullock, there had been enough raised voices and dismissive words to strike a tender nerve. “You can tell her that it’s very kind of her to care, and I appreciate it,” Ed said as he wiped the lenses with a piece of paper towel, not turning away from the sink. “But I’m perfectly fine.” He put his glasses back on and sent his coworker another smile. “Just a few bad nights and a mild cold, nothing to worry about. Now if you’ll excuse me, my reports won’t write themselves. I should bring it to you in a couple of hours.” 

Not awaiting the response, he left the bathroom with his heartbeat pulsating in his ears, trying to remember the last time he had spoken to Lee Thompkins and what reasons he could have had possibly given her to make her concerned about him. To his horror, Ed had quickly come to the realization that he could hardly remember anything from that day at all, everything from the moment he had left the Iceberg Lounge until now shrouded in clouds of smoke and tinted by blue lights. Whatever it was that had happened between him and Penguin had now been getting to him and people had begun sense that something was off. He could not risk someone noticing or taking an interest in him, no matter how unlikely that was, as in his shaken state Ed would not trust himself to keep a secret. Even if he  _ were _ to be asked, he would not even know what to say, and that would only make him sink further. He needed answers. He needed answers or he would lose his  _ mind _ . 

Luckily for him, Jim Gordon had been the first and the last person who had come seeking him to inquire about the state of his general wellbeing, but for the remainder of his shift, Ed still steered as far away from the Medical Examiner’s office and the detectives’ bullpen as it was possible while still fulfilling his duties. The following hours had stretched themselves out into eternity in the most cruel and unbearable manner, and the sheer torture of waiting while having nothing he could properly occupy himself with had been distressing on him enough without people taking a sudden interest in him. He had become so restless, in fact, that he had been avoiding even Kristen that day, of all people. Kristen… Ever since he had begun working for Penguin, Ed had found himself paying attention to his rather unfortunate infatuation with her less and less until he had reached a point where he had been barely thinking about her at all, the object of yearning in his head replaced by someone entirely different. Her sight had still been taking his breath away at times, a polite nod from her making his heart skip a beat or two, but he had stopped actively seeking her out, trying to impress her, doing his best to sneak into her good graces. What was surprising, however, was that once he had taken a step back, Kristen started to warm up to him, becoming more open and friendly, and had he not been pining for the most powerful crimelord in all of Gotham, Ed would have had hope for them. For him and Kirsten, that they could still work, that they could still be, that he could still be good enough for her. But that was not the case, not this time, not anymore, and not even the thought of her dating yet another slimy police officer was upsetting him as much as it would have had two months ago. She still deserved better, he thought to himself sometimes, she still deserved someone who would treat well and do right by her, but Ed had started making peace with the fact that he just wasn’t that someone.

All things considered, he shouldn’t be thinking about Kristen while he was gradually getting more and more uneasy at the perspective of returning to the Iceberg Lounge. When there had been only two hours between him and the end of the shift, marking the moment where he could return to the club and see Penguin again, the anticipation that had been steadily bubbling in his stomach throughout the day had suddenly boiled and sizzled, seething burning heat of anxiety over his insides. In the space between seconds, he had abruptly realized that he had  _ not  _ actually known what he could possibly expect from going to the Iceberg again, what he could expect from Penguin, and what Penguin could expect from  _ him _ . Last night, the brittle and still fresh feelings he had been growing in the gaps between his heart and lungs had been exposed in a vile manner and then used as an excuse to put Ed in a position that could be used to humiliate him for being so foolishly naive and hopelessly romantic. And had it not been for the warm gazes and squeezed shoulders and clues peppered here and there, in the decor of the bar and the pins of suit lapels, he would have thought that it had been exactly what had happened to him. That he had been used as cheap entertainment, as a plaything, as though he had been a fly caught by a child and now there was someone trying to tear off his limbs. But whatever Ed had ended up doing, it had been met with a cautious response and interest, and, in the end, everything he had done he had done because he  _ wanted  _ to, all the way to the little heavy word that slipped past his chapped lips had been true and it had been  _ his _ , unprompted. The fundamental truth of what had happened between him and Penguin was that it had been consensual and welcome on both sides, no matter how unexpected, how unconventional, how unplanned, and with that awareness, there was only one question left for Ed to ponder:  _ what now _ ?

By the time he had gotten off the clock, across the snow-covered old Gotham to Tricorner, and into the elevator with a familiar tune playing from the speakers above, that was the only thing left in his head, bouncing off the inside of his skull like a ping-pong ball. He didn’t have the finest idea what kind of plans Penguin held for him in store or what he even was originally intending to get out of the situation when he had asked Ed if he could play any instruments. He had some suspicions and hesitant predictions, of course, fleeting thoughts with loose ends he had been doing his best not to grasp on, not fully certain whether he truly wanted to see what was attached to the other end. Still, there was heat rising up in his belly as he walked towards the entrance to the Iceberg Lounge, his heart’s increased rhythm vibrating through his body almost like it was singing a song encouraging him to push through the flashing instinct telling him to flee. His breath got stuck below his gullet as his eyes scoured through the empty club, looking for the familiar crisp lines and sharp angles but never catching the glimpse of the spiky hair or a pristine suit. There was a pang of bitter disappointment digging into his chest for a brief moment, right before it was swiftly overflown and drowned with cold, dark water. 

“Edward,” he heard a silky voice come from one of his booths, and when he looked in that direction he saw not Penguin, but Fish Mooney, sitting comfortably with her legs crossed, one of her gold-covered hands holding a crystal glass. She curled her finger at him, the long blood-red nail shimmering and glistening in the blue-tinted light shining right above her head. “Come,” she called out to him, and he felt a sudden urge to oblige and obey, follow whatever order she could possibly give him. “Don’t be shy. Come, have a seat.” 

There was not a single version of reality where Ed would not comply, no matter how many red alarms were blaring up and going off hin his head, telling him that he was walking straight into the lioness’ den, that if he even twitched the wrong muscle he would end up as someone’s dinner. But Fish Mooney ruled over Gotham as much as her adoptive son did, albeit she preferred to keep it to the background most of the time, letting Penguin be the face for them and to stand in the spotlight while she took care of the matters more delicate where a short temper could destroy more than it could build. Or at least that was what Ed had known, read in the newspapers and police files or overheard at the station and on the streets, he every so often visited. Penguin and Fish were as different as two people could be, but their hunger for power and incredible strategy skills were something they had in common, as well as something that made them so very deadly. Ed struggled through swallowing around something clogging his throat as he slowly, very slowly as if he was approaching a dangerous animal, slid into the booth on the other side of the table, hands folding down on his lap. “I, uh,” he muttered. “I was-”

She interrupted him almost right away, speaking like she hadn’t heard him or like he wasn’t important enough to be heard, to begin with. “You’re here to see Oswald,” she said, a statement rather than a question, as she observed him intently with her different-coloured eyes, one black, one blue. “I know that, he should come back shortly. But I thought before he does, why don’t we have a little chat?” she shrugged with only one shoulder, taking a sip from her glass. “Just the two of us.” She then stopped, measuring Ed with her piercing gaze, all the way from his slicked-back hair to the tips of his suede shoes, almost like she could see through the layers of clothes, skin, and muscle and look right into his soul. “He’s special, you know.” 

Up until that very moment, Ed had been trying to look at anything at all other than Fish, as if not to challenge her, but he perked up slightly at those words, his interest spiking. “Special?” he echoed after her carefully, shifting slightly where he was seated.

Fish made a gesture towards the rest of the Iceberg, as if she wanted Ed to fully take everything in--from the toned colour pallette, through the perfectly selected furniture, down to the impeccable decor, each and every element playing a role in the seductive harmony of the club’s soul. “Three years ago,” she began, Ed’s focus immediately turning back to her, “Oswald was holding my umbrella while I was running my club stuck between Carmine Falcone and Sal Maroni. Now here we are.” There was pride to her voice, like Penguin really was her son, like she had raised him or made him who he was now. “He took over the city after I… well, died. Then he was the mayor, and now he has systemized and revolutionized the whole underground and he’s holding the city by its  _ throat _ .” She put a lot of emphasis on the last word, her eyes sparkling up, expression subtly changing from neutral to threatening, a difference only indicated by the tenseness in the creases around her mouth and eyes. “But he’s never had much of an interest in anyone. It kept him focused. And now, suddenly, he wants to have a boy toy?”

All the blood immediately drained from Ed’s face as the words  _ boy toy _ rang between his ears, their echo nearly making his lungs collapse. He didn’t like it, he  _ really _ didn’t like being called that, just like before he did not like being referred to as a purchase during the very first case Penguin had assigned him to. By now, Ed should have had been used to various insults, but each one of them always rubbed salt into the wound that just did not want to scab and being degraded down to something like an object hurt even more. It felt humiliating and dehumanizing, and while he sang up on that stage, Penguin did not make him feel like this--Ed felt seen and acknowledged, perhaps even admired a little bit. The contrast between how he had been treated the night before and how he was being treated now was making his head hurt. Where was Penguin? “I-” was all Ed managed to stutter, clueless as to what words Fish expected from him, what was her reasoning between talking to him like that, like he was a threat. “I- what can you catch but not throw? A cold. Don’t-” He pressed his lids closed, sharp stinging behind his eyes. “I don’t-” 

He could feel Fish’s judging look burning his skin. “But Fine. What kind of a mother would I be to deny him?” she posed a question, but Ed suspected she was not looking for an answer. Another half-shrug, this time fuller, with more of her body, but one of her rings scratched the surface of the glass as her fingers tightened around it. “He’s still young, he needs entertainment, he needs someone to adore him. And he deserves the best. Now.” She put her glass down, both hands resting on the table in front of her as she leaned in forward, her necklaces jingling. “I don’t see why he likes you, with your big sad eyes and ugly suits of all people, but I swear on my mother’s grave, if you ever as much as  _ think _ about doing something to hurt or even  _ upset _ my boy, I will personally break your feet and bend your knees the other way so you have to crawl on all fours like a dog. Are we clear?” 

Ed just stared at her for full ten seconds out of wide eyes, unable to move even an inch or to make a sound like he was paralyzed. That was quite a vivid image she had just painted for him and there was not a shred of doubt in mind that she would follow through with it and that she would enjoy it. She was acting like a concerned mother, or at least that’s what Ed suspected a concerned mother running half of the underworld would react in the face of her son taking an interest in someone. Despite the freezing dread, he felt in that moment, Ed couldn’t help but feel a tiny shiver go down his spine at the thought of Penguin being interested in  _ him _ . “Yes, of course,” he blurted out. “Yes, Miss Mooney, I- I completely understand, I’m not- I mean, I wasn’t gonna-” 

Scrambling for the right words to reassure her that the last thing he was planning on doing was to emotionally harm the king of the city, the door to the Iceberg were pushed open and Penguin stepped inside. Never before in his life had Ed felt this much relief at the mere sight of someone, his petrified heart immediately picking its rushed pace again. He was already moving out of the booth towards him, starved for a conversation or even just being noticed, but he threw a cautious look at Fish before he stood up fully, waiting for permission to go, which arrived from her in the form of a hesitant nod. “Ah, Ed,” Penguin greeted him as he limped closer, leaning against his cane like he was in pain. “I know I asked you to come here, but I’m afraid I have a rather urgent matter to discuss with Fish.”

Disappointment tasted sour, a sinking feeling only further deepening in his chest as Ed muttered: “Oh.” As upset at the information as he was, he didn’t want to let it show, so he tried smiling but even that didn’t feel quite right. “That’s perfectly alright. I can just… come around some other time.” 

“Tomorrow,” Penguin suggested immediately as he looked up at him and his features weren’t as heavy as they had been in the clouds of smoke. Now he seemed softer and more blurred at the edges, his eyes a little bit warmer and kinder, almost like he wasn’t sure of what he was suggesting, like it was more of a hopeful question than a harsh order. “I’d take you to my tailor, I want you to look a little more presentable now. How about seven? I’ll send you the address.”

Taken by surprise, Ed stood stunned for a moment before he nodded his head enthusiastically, something warm spreading through his body. “Yes. Yes, of course. Seven works for me.” Penguin smiled at him, and it was like stepping into sunshine.

It almost sounded like a date. 


	7. seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh diddly darn can y'all believe that it only took [checks word count] roughly 27.5k words to finally get to the proper sugar daddy stuff in this sugar daddy AU? Me neither! But here we finally are and I am finally serving you some of that g o o d c u s h. It turns out more brief than I originally planned it to be but don't worry the next chapter is cooking up to have quite a bit of that sweet sweet Nygmobblepot content and I know what I'm talking about because I'm already at 3.5k words of the next chapter. How quickly am I writing this AU? Don't ask! Because it's my only coping mechanism and I'm going to go to work in roughly three weeks so I'm going to indulge in writing as much as I can while I still can (: that's enough of ranting please enjoy <3 as always I'd love to read your comments <3 and I'm on Twitter @alekstraordinar in case you want to scream at me <3  
> P.S. I KNOW THAT THE SHOP'S NAME IS HILARIOUS LOOK AWAY I'M DUMB GAY AND LOVE PUNS

He still could not quite believe it.

The clock ticking on the wall showed quarter past six when he opened the door to his closet and flipped the switch on, the yellow light radiating from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling on a thin wire barely strong enough to illuminate the cramped space, its sickly glow tinting the clothes inside into a dirtier shade. He had gotten off the clock early that day, excusing himself with a prolonged malaise and a persistent headache--a simple yet effective lie taking its roots in Lee Thompkins’ recent worries about his well-being but still vague enough to be believable even given his nearly flawless attendance record. But as it had turned out, there had been no reason to so thoroughly plan this manoeuvre, as the Commissioner had barely paid any attention to him and only waved a hand at him in a dismissive manner, telling him to go and to not infect the rest of the staff. It had only been an hour since he had gotten back home which, just as he had expected and according to his reasoning, had given him enough time to cook a simple meal so he wouldn’t have to go out on an empty stomach, and then take a shower to properly freshen up. With his dark hair still wet and curling up on his forehead, he stood there in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and a white undershirt, one of his arms across his chest while he kept the index finger of the other one bent and pressed against his lips as he considered his options. He had always paid close attention to take care of himself and to look appropriate for work, what couldn’t exactly be said about _some_ of his coworkers, but most importantly he had been doing it because it made him feel just a little bit better about himself. He knew all too well that he wasn’t particularly attractive--not with his facial features cartoonishly exaggerated like they had been drawn by a child, and not with his limbs too long for his torso like they had been stretched out of proportion--but the least he could do with his appearance was his best with what he had to work with. But tonight… tonight he just wanted to look _good._

It would be a vast understatement to say that he was simply excited and looking forward to tonight’s meeting, as this had been the only thing occupying his thoughts since he had left the Iceberg Lounge the night before, almost floating across the corridors on cloud nine. He had always felt exceptionally good right before, during, and then shortly after his visits to the club, or perhaps these had been the only times when the ever-present, vague sense of sadness had left him for a couple of hours. There had been no denying that coming there to see Penguin had been like getting another fix of a drug he couldn’t live without anymore, like there had been a constant craving in his stomach that could only ever be satisfied under the vibrant lights and umbrella-shaped chandeliers and the gaze of those piercing green-blue eyes. However, no matter how great his initial joy had been, it had quickly turned into a cooler and greener tone of anxiety, as Penguin had a certain strange quality about him, which had even more peculiar effects on Ed and his state of mind. It was almost like he had been some sort of an amplifier, making Ed’s emotions not only more intense and more saturated but also causing them to constantly fluctuate between extremes of the emotional spectrum. Only since he had gotten home, Ed had already gone through so many different and everchanging states he had lost track of them--he had felt everything from pure joy bordering with bliss, through spiking and itching anticipation, all the way to intense uneasiness putting doubts all over his head. The only constant sensation in all of this internal chaos, standing firm and solid like a rock in the midst of a stormy, billowing sea surrounding it was sheer and simple _curiosity_. 

After all, it had not been explicitly explained to him what it was exactly that Penguin had expected from him, and if he _had_ been told, it had been done in such a vague and subtle way that Ed had been left with more questions than answers. Of course, he had his suspicions, but very early on following them to see where they would lead he had decided that he would rather not go down that path, that nothing good had been waiting for him at the end of it and that it would be for the best to simply let the events unfold on their own. As well as he had known himself, he knew that if he had let his thoughts wander too much or if he had let them focus on something too intently, once faced with reality he would either get scared and look for a way out against his better judgement, or he would simply get his hopes up only to then get sorely disappointed. Without a shade of doubt, the smartest choice would have been to just let all of this be, leave it and patiently wait for what the evening was going to bring. But, as expected, Ed couldn’t quite stop himself from prodding at the problem and looking at it from different angles, his hunger for knowledge and an unhealthy need to fully understand everything he had come into contact with easily winning over his common sense. It was especially Penguin’s phrasing that had been persistently jabbing at his brain for the past hours, one little word of it, just a single syllable that had seemed to promise a clear answer to Ed’s questioning. _I want you to look more presentable_ now **.** _Now_. The way he had said it made it sound like they had already agreed on some sort of a deal, like the performance Ed had given him hadn’t been a one-time deal and that Ed himself had no longer been just a forensic scientist and investigator on Penguin’s pay, and that-

“You know _exactly_ what it means.”

Ed stilled with his hand on the sleeve of his dark, checkered suit, his face immediately dropping as he heard his own distorted voice coming from right next to him, a very familiar figure appearing at the blurry edge of his vision. He grit his teeth as he swallowed around the lump that had suddenly found its way to his throat, the scratchy thing tucking itself uncomfortably right below his gullet as he struggled to ignore the snarky remark that was still lingering in the air. He didn’t want to give in to it, he knew he was being taunted, but he couldn’t just say nothing when he was being accused and the insistent gaze was making cold sores blister over his skin. It had been quite some time since Riddler had last spoken up--so long, in fact, that Ed was beginning to hope he had gone away. “I… I don’t,” he muttered but only half-heartedly, his fingers lingering on the smooth fabric as he tried to force himself to focus back on the task he had yet to complete. He wanted to look as good as he possibly could, even though the words _more presentable_ were still looming over him. “I _don’t_ know what he meant, at least not exactly. And I’m trying not to assume anything, you know how it usually ends for me.”

Mocking laughter came back to him as a response, Riddler looking up to the ceiling, a grotesque smile spreading over his face as he slid his hands into the pockets of his tightly-fitting suit. “Please, Ed, even if I wasn’t _literally_ living inside your head, we’d both still know that’s bullshit.” He stepped back, cocking his head to the side as he leaned against the iron pole in the middle of the apartment, resting his shoulder against it as he sent Ed a look from under raised brows. Although he was acting nonchalant, there was a tenseness in his frame and an edge to the lines of his body. He was angry. “Even if you weren’t whole twenty-eight years old or half as smart as you are, you calling him “daddy” and Fish calling you his “boy toy” should have given you enough clues to realize that he wants to fuck you.” 

Heat immediately raised up Ed’s neck, burning his cheeks and pinching his ears as he almost choked on air, his head snapping back towards the closet as he pulled the hanger with his brown suit on it out aggressively. “I,” he stuttered, failing to find the right words in his defence, knowing that no matter what he was going to say, that cursed figment of his imagination still knew all of his most intimate thoughts and feelings. “I don’t… I don’t know if _that_ is what he wants, and neither do you!” 

Riddler sucked his teeth as he raised his shoulders and squinched his face, making an exaggerated expression of doubt. “Maybe not, but I know that _you_ want him to.” 

There was an ugly thing, hot and shameful, digging its crooked claws into Ed’s lungs so deeply it made his eyes sting, as if it was threatening with tears to swell up there at any second. He didn’t like the way Riddler was talking to him, and as common it was of him to say something hurtful, this was simply an incredibly low blow. Rationally, he knew that everyone had a part of themselves they had struggled with, something disgraceful or something embarrassing, something difficult to ever come to terms with, let alone accept. Ever since his first interaction with Penguin and despite all of his actions, Ed had been trying as best as he could to forcefully remain oblivious, to not dwell on the matter even though the intensity of the feelings was making the cells in his body vibrate and every action he had been taking had been a conscious one. Even when he had noticed that he had been acting towards Penguin the same way he once had towards Kristen, even when he had given a performance where he had sung a love song full of yearning, he had still been trying to push the acknowledgement of what all of this implied as deeply as he possibly could. Now here he was, raw and bare, his own mind ordering him to put a stop to twenty-eight years of internal torment. “Even if…” he began slowly and his mouth felt dry. “Even if I do, why does that bother you so much? You have… _always_ been so cruel to me that I kept it inside, and you were always pushing me out and now-” Ed exhaled slowly, shaking his head as if he could make Riddler disappear with this. “What do you want from me now? Why are you so angry that I-”

A loud bang resonated through the flat as Riddler crashed his fist into the pole. “ _What_ do I want from you?” he asked, his voice raised, eyes burning up. “ _Why_ am I angry? Do you think that I put you in Iceberg that night so you could finally be honest with yourself? No!” He threw up his hands into the air dramatically, hands clenched at the sides of his face, knees bent as he was putting emphasis on every single word. “I put you there because you’re willfully wasting yourself away at the G.C.P.D., you’re wasting _us_ away!” There was a vein pulsating on his forehead, his bottom teeth showing. “We’re smart! I got us inside, and we could _easily_ make a name for ourselves in this city and you’re _blowing_ it! And for what? For suddenly coming to terms with yourself and becoming... “ there was almost disgust in his voice, “Penguin’s _sugar baby_?”

Ed flinched like Riddler had just slapped him, taking half a step back in something close to disbelief, but not quite. There had been moments in the past where he had almost thought that Riddler could care about him, in his own strange way, but those words ached far too greatly for this theory to ever be confirmed. “No, you…” Ed said quietly, shaking his head slightly. “No. No, you’re just… you’re just angry because someone actually likes me.” His tone became accusatory, confidence mixed with desperation rising up in his chest. “And you know that if I’m happy, you’re gone! I won’t pay attention to you anymore and I _definitely_ won’t let you hijack my body. You’re just afraid of losing power!” His glasses were sliding off his nose and he only had half a mind to push them back into their place when he turned back to the closet. “Go away,” he just said, and although he wanted to sound bold, his words just came out sad. “I’m going on a date.” 

He still didn’t know if it _was_ a date when he finished dressing up, checking his hair in the bathroom’s mirror right before he was supposed to leave, but if telling himself that this was exactly the case would keep Riddler away, he was willing to embrace it. As much as he hated the way Riddler had spoken to him, there was also no denying that in the midst of his mockery he had finally brought to light something that, until now, Ed had only been throwing uncertain glances at, too scared what would happen if he had gotten comfortable with the idea. What Riddler had suggested was ridiculous and impossible--an unachievable ambition born from his bloated and grossly overgrown ego and he was getting angry and restless because Ed had his eyes on an entirely different goal. There had always been this one part of himself that, due to the way he had been treated in his youth, he had still struggled to accept, and now when he had finally begun growing comfortable with these feelings and acting on them, someone inside his head was shaming him for it in a vile manner. It hurt, like he had been stabbed from the inside on an especially tender spot, but this once he had decided that he would not back down and he hoped, so very dearly, that there was something worth the struggle waiting for him ahead. All of this certainly seemed worth it, seeing how Penguin had been truly _kind_ to him and expressed a genuine interest in him, possibly as the first person in Ed’s entire life who hadn’t ridiculed him for his quirks or looked at him any different because of then. He wasn’t fond at all of the term Riddler had used to describe him, the way in which these words had been thrown at him tasting dehumanizing and bitter and all too simple. If there was one thing he had learned about Penguin over the course of his employment, it was that things certainly were never this easy with him. 

So, as he drove across Old Gotham and over through the Fashion District to then stop his car in front of one of many salons sprouting along the street, he knew that he still couldn’t be entirely sure of what was going to happen next. All he could tell was that he had become nervous again, although this time the feeling was brighter and warmer, closer to the excitement of his blood fizzing and pleasant tingling permeating his bones than to the cold dread of his muscles tensing and airways clogging. There was a blow of chilly air biting at his face as he stepped outside and looked up at the rather modest and inconspicuous-looking sign hanging above the store windows, a simple cursive text on a white background announcing that this was Robin Lord’s Tayloring Salon. The little plaque underneath confirmed that this was the address Penguin had sent him the previous night, reminding to be there at seven and, according to his watch, he still had ten minutes left. Not wanting to stand awkwardly out in the cold or attract unwanted attention, Ed took a deep breath and pulled the door to the shop open, a bell above his head jingling to announce his arrival. 

He could barely see anything at first, as the inside of the store was equally as gloomy as the street outside, the only light sources being rather old-fashioned wall lamps with just as old-fashioned lightbulbs glowing at their twisted tips. The wine-red wallpaper and the almost black wood all of the furniture and the floor had been made out of only further darkened the inside, hiding the mannequins with pristine suits one them away in the shadows. It was so dark there, in fact, that Ed had only noticed a clerk standing behind the counter when he spoke up, throwing him an unamused look from above glasses in thin, golden rims. “Edward?” he asked, his tone bland. “Edward Nygma?” 

A little bit startled by the unexpected greeting, Ed hesitated before he nodded, keeping his hands curled in the pockets of his coat. “I- uh, yes. Mr Penguin- I mean, Mr Cobblepot asked me to-”

The man Ed could only assume to be the owner of the salon interrupted him, closing the book in front of him and waving his hand slightly. “He’s waiting in the back,” he said simply, and he looked tired, and perhaps even a little bit bored, like the years of working with customers had worn him down to the bone, or perhaps that his newest client’s appearance hadn’t impressed him in the slightest. “Come. You can leave your outer garments here,” he added as he pointed towards a rack behind his counter, a familiar coat with black and purple fur collar already hanging there. “Don’t worry, not many people come here, it’s going to be safe.” 

Following the tailor, Ed walked across the cramped space of the front of the shop, through a rather short and narrow hallway, and into a more comfortable, properly lit room. There was a fireplace burning in one of the corners, its high orange flames filling the room with warmth and pleasant, quiet crackling. Three high mirrors stood propped against another wall, two of the panels at an inwardly-bending angle with a circular platform standing between them and a table with a box filled with tailoring tools in front of it. The rest of the space had been filled with mannequins wearing all sorts of suits, the styles of them dating from over fifty years ago all the way to modern days, the colours ranging from midnight black through toned greys and browns to more saturated colours, the patterns spanning from plain and checkered to embroidered in intricate patterns. Just the sheer variety of them was overwhelming, but a thing all of them shared in common was that they were perfectly sewn, not a single stitch or seam out of place, not a piece of string protruding from its rightful place, not a speck of dust settled on the shoulders or the sleeves. And then, sitting on a couch almost hidden between the exhibits of tailoring craftsmanship, there was Penguin, looking as flawless and beautiful as always, dressed in an immaculate suit the jacket of which was black at the shoulders and then progressively turned into toned, dark gold the further down it went. “Ed,” he greeted him, his smile reaching all the way up to his eyes and making Ed’s insides boil. “I’m glad to see you, you’re right on time.” 

Immediately, Ed’s entire frame became lighter, his face brightened, and the corners of his mouth tickled as his heart stammered slightly, like the sight of Penguin made it trip in the midst of his usual pace, but it picked it up just as swiftly and sped up while singing a song. “Hi-” he blurted out a first, the cogs in his brain grinding for a moment, his tongue stumbling over his words. “Uh, I mean- good evening, Mr Penguin.”

“Please, you don’t have to be so formal, I think we’re way past that,” Penguin told him as he stood up from where he was seated, tugging at his waistcoat slightly to straighten it out and leaving his cane propped against one of the armrests. “You can call me Oswald, at least for _now_ ,” he said, putting a certain amount of pressure on that little word again, and Ed could feel his ears burn and redden at the implication, at the hint towards the night when he sang that sensuous song. “I asked you to come here because I thought that you could use a little wardrobe change _now_ , which I assume you’ve already guessed. Mr Taylor here,” he then nodded towards the older gentleman who, at that time, was looking at Ed very intently above the rim of his glasses, judging every inch of the fabric of his clothes from the ends of his pants to the highest point of his collar, “is my tailor, so I thought that his salon would be just the right place for you to get something more… appropriate. He’s the best in Gotham, dare I say, which is why I get all my clothes from here.” 

Mr Taylor made a dismissive gesture as he stepped uncomfortably close to Ed, grabbing him by the forearm and rubbing the fabric of his sleeve between his fingers with a squinched nose. “You’re flattering me, Oswald, it makes me like you almost as much as I like all the money you leave here. Now, Edward, if you could step up on that platform for me, I need to take a better look at what I’m going to be working with.” He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up when Ed hesitated for a moment, looking questioningly at Penguin- looking questioningly at Oswald before he did as he was told, feeling embarrassment creep up on his neck. He very much disliked being judged and commented on, even more so on his appearance than his personality and its quirks, so he was putting himself up for something close to an examination and he was no longer knew if he was sure that he wanted to do… _this_. “This suit isn’t bad, but it’s clearly off the rack,” Mr Taylor continued as he walked around Ed, snatching a measuring tape off of his little table. “You’ve got long limbs, boy, you need to have your clothes adjusted or it won’t be doing you any favours. This brown isn’t too flattering either, I think we should go for something colder, like black or grey.” He raised his head. “Any colour preferences?” 

Ed stared back down at him, slightly overwhelmed at the amount of information and the tone in which it had been given to him--there was not a shade of ridicule to be found, just plain and simple facts. His eyes then shifted to the background of the reflection he saw in the mirror, Oswald settled back on the couch, elbow on the armrest, face resting against his fingers, looking at Ed like he _liked_ what he was seeing, and that alone caused something hot down in Ed’s belly to stir and twist. “Green? I like green.” 

Less than thirty minutes later, there was a glass of wine in Oswald’s hand and an unimaginable amount of pins stuck in the fabric of the muted-green striped suit Ed had been asked to put on, the tailor working around him quietly, marking adjustments, measuring various lengths, and writing them all down in his leather-bound journal. Although Ed’s worries had disappeared to then be replaced by steadily increasing excitement, there was still an undeniable, almost tangible tension, as if the unspoken matters were hanging heavily in the heated air, making it more difficult to breathe. Despite his tongue constantly flexing and relaxing where it rested at the roof of his mouth, Ed still struggled with finding the right words to broach the subject up, how to start this conversation. He was running various scenarios in his head, considering different options so intensely that he twitched where he stood, startled when he heard Oswald speak up: “I think it looks very good,” he said, turning the glass between his fingers. “I think that three or four of these in this style should suffice for _now_.”

His heart beating up a rapid pace in his chest, Ed risked asking: “For now?”

The expression on Oswald’s face changed upon hearing those words, his body tensing up as he shifted slightly where he was seated, almost uncomfortably, like the simple question took a jab at his confidence, or perhaps at the plans he had had. Mr Taylor muttered something under his breath, not addressing anyone in the room in particular as he moved towards the door, clearly sensing the tension of the situation and wishing for nothing more than removing himself from the room for the time being. They stayed alone there, just the two of them, looking at each other in the smooth surface of the mirror while the fire crackled in the fireplace and their veins. "Well," Oswald began after a moment as he put down his glass. He then raised up from his seat again and walked up to where Ed was standing on the elevated platform. “It’s a good beginning, I suppose. We will see what happens next.”

“Mr Penguin- I mean, Oswald,” Ed said as he stepped down, the uncertainty making every single muscle of his body tense up to the point of aching, his fingers trembling from anticipation like they were trying to match the pulsating rhythm in his ears. “I appreciate all of this… I really do. And I like you, and I liked singing to you but-” His tongue felt dry and there was gritting in between his teeth like he had swallowed sand and now the residue of it was clinging to the inside of his mouth, turning speaking clearly and coherently into a struggle. It wasn’t until then that he had realized just how close Oswald he had put himself, close enough that he could see the faint, long shadows his eyelashes were throwing onto his freckled cheekbones. Ed raised his hand up to his glasses, grabbing at the side of them, desperately needing to busy himself with something. “I just really need you to tell me _exactly_ what you want from me because when it comes to social situations I seem to _always_ get it wrong, and I really didn’t want to make any assumptions but everything has been so vague that I-”

Oswald silenced him a gesture of his hand almost immediately, and for once Ed was glad to be cut off because he definitely didn’t like where his increasingly more expeditious babbling had been going. “I want to keep you around,” he said, his head tilting back so he could look Ed straight in the eyes, his voice lowering slightly. “I want you to look at me the way you did after you sang to me.” His gaze flickered down to judge the way the green suit fitted Ed’s body, a hand coming up to slide across the lapel of it. “I want to dress you up and spoil you with gifts. I want to show you off. If you let me.” 

Heat that raised up at the pit of Ed’s stomach was so hot that for a split of a second he feared that it could melt him from the inside, ruin him completely, and leave nothing but an empty shell behind. “I- oh,” he managed to stutter as he had been finally presented with a clear explanation, a clear expectation, put down into the simplest of terms so there could be not a shade of doubt that he could read it the wrong way. He was wanted. _He was wanted_. He nodded, perhaps just a bit too enthusiastically, something creaking in his neck. “I think I’d like that,” he expressed his consent in the most ungraceful way he could possibly imagine, his hands clasping in front of his body, nails digging into the flesh to make sure that he was staying focused. “But… I think I’d rather keep it just between us. I- I like my job, actually, and I don’t want to have to quit and I don’t like the way people look at me as it is I’d just… I’d rather not have anyone question me and seeing how you own half of the city I don’t think I’d be able to avoid that.” 

With a smirk hiding just at the edges of his mouth, Oswald made an amused scoff. “Well, you’re probably not wrong about that. So, fine. I agree. If this is the way you want it,” he made a gesture, “then so be it. As long as we’re both happy with the arrangement, I have no objections.”

Ed smiled so widely it made his face hurt, but he simply could not stop himself from doing so. He was happy, he was actually happy, and he was excited, and both of these emotions flared up in him with such an intensity he could not contain them, his judgement clouded with a pink, sparkling mist so thoroughly that he didn’t even have half a mind to stop and think, and instead he gave into the impulse that vibrated through his body, making the ends of his nerves tingle. His hands snapped up and cupped Oswald’s warm cheeks, and they fit there just right like it was the place they were supposed to be in, and he bent down to press his lips against Oswald’s, and it was like an electric current shocking him from the crown of his head down to the tips of his toes. He could taste the sweetness of wine and just a hint of the bitterness of cigarette smoke, his nose filled with a smell so specific yet simultaneously so vague he could not quite identify, but it had a spicy note to it, almost teasing, just like the roughness of the shade of the evening stubble against his skin. It was as though he was buzzing from the inside, each one of his cells and fibers singing in unison, and his head was light and dizzy as if he was drunk, and the middle of his chest felt like there was a small sun burning up bright inside. 

He was kissed back.


	8. eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi hi here comes another chapter and they’re finally on a proper-proper date! Also fair warning that I ATTEMPTED writing smut and uhm,,, let’s just say that I saw it fit for the plot but the results are questionable at best so if you think it’s cringy kindly look away! :’) Thanks for bearing through 8 chapters of build-up with me and I hope you will enjoy the descend into an established relationship now <3 as always I would love love love to read your thoughts in the comments <3 and catch me screaming about Nygmobs on Twitter @alekstraordinar <3

It felt good.

Several days had passed since he had spent his evening in the warm, expensive, and somewhat mysterious inside of the salon owned by the equally mysterious Mr Taylor and, quite frankly, Ed struggled to recall a period of his life when he had last felt this _well_. By the time he had gotten to the Fashion District, he had already begun slowly adjusting to and getting comfortable with the idea that there had been someone who had taken an interest in him, and moreover, an interest great enough to actively pursue him. This sudden change of attitude had happened partially due to pure spite and the need to prove Riddler wrong, and partially simply because he had been running out of excuses he could feed his denial with. Although he had gone to that meeting--or on that date, as he deep down preferred to think of it as--trying to not let himself ponder on the matter too greatly or to make assumptions, what had happened once he and Oswald had been left alone had exceeded even the boldest of his hopes and expectations for what the night could hold. Ever since he had first sang for him, there had been bumps along Ed’s excitement, later further deepened by Fish Mooney and by Riddler, where he had feared that Oswald would treat him in an objectifying way, more like a toy than a person to keep company, and that he wouldn’t be given the right to say no. So, when Oswald had clearly stated his expectations and asked for his consent, looking up at him with a gentle eye, but also a certain heaviness to his tone, the feeling that had washed over Ed carried sour aftertaste of shame to it. After all, there had been only so few people in his life that had treated him with as much effortless kindness, which was one of the many reasons why the tender thing between his ribs had sprouted to begin with, and then kept spreading, overgrowing the sickly and withering weeds he had once planted there for Kristen, and then blossomed, all blue-green with specks of purple and gold.

And then, of course, there had been the kiss. Although Ed had toyed with the idea before, catching himself on sparing a fleeting thought on wondering what Oswald’s lips would feel on his own, to actually experience it had been a sensation far more exhilarating that he had let himself imagine. It had made him feel _weak_. His head had become empty and light as though he was high on drugs, his knees had bucked under him as if they could no longer support his weight, his whole body had boiled up like there was liquid fire spreading through his veins in place of blood. It had been a proper one, too, not a quick brush of lips or a shy peck at their very corner, no--it had been almost desperate, a way to relieve some of the pressure that had been building up between them for weeks, the slight pinch of teeth and the flick of a tongue nearly making Ed collapse. From that point, the rest of the evening had become blurry and fuzzy and tinted pink, accompanied by the hot burning in his ears and the memory of the kiss still lingering on his mouth leaving him with a sense of insatiability, like he wanted another one, just once more, just for one second. Even after they had said goodbye and gone their separate ways, he could still not quite stop himself from smiling absentmindedly, like he was a teen thinking he’s a young god after stealing a smooch from his crush. Being appreciated, being _wanted_ , and perhaps even a little bit being adored was something completely foreign to him, and although he couldn’t begin to understand why someone like _Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot_ would be interested in him, of all people, Ed had been determined to indulge in this high for as long as he could. He had been aware that his perspective and decision-making had become skewed, but at that time he could not see the downsides. He felt _good_.

He felt so good, in fact, that it had become effortless for him to ignore Riddler’s almost unsettling silence he had fallen into since their last argument, as well as to endure the everyday unpleasantries from his coworkers at the G.C.P.D. He simply had not been able to be bothered by Gordon rolling his eyes or Bullock snapping at him where there he had been walking among them, cradling a shining and warm secret close to his heart. A secret quite different from the one that had been burdening months ago, spiking his anxiety until he had been feverish and nauseous, debilitated so greatly he had unwillingly let Riddler take over. But it had been a long, very long time since he had thought of it last and a time just as long since anyone at the police station had mentioned Tom Doughtery’s name, almost like he had never existed in the first place. It seemed like Ed’s life had been greatly improved in every aspect possible, even the way he moved getting a certain lightness to it. Through those days the only thing that had been negatively affecting his mood was that he hadn’t been able to see Oswald for nearly a week. His phone had remained dark and quiet for a couple of days, its weight at the bottom of his pocket growing heavier with each passing hour and the stillness of it had been ringing in his ears louder and louder and planting worries in his heart. He hadn’t liked the sudden silence after they had _just_ kissed and made their agreement more official with a clear understanding on both sides. Of course, by that time Ed had had more sources of information about the happenings of the criminal underworld that the police forces could even dream of, but he had elected against seeking answers at the Iceberg Lounge, not wanting to make himself seem exposed or desperate. So he had just waited, no matter how much the idleness had been making his skin crawl and itch and sit not quite right on his flesh. 

It had been on a Thursday evening, after he had just gotten back home from work, when he had heard the bell to the front door ring, an occurrence taking place incredibly sparsely, especially when he hadn’t been expecting a delivery. Scrunching his eyebrows, and halfway through the process of changing into something more comfortable, he had crossed his apartment and pulled the door open. On the other side, there had been a broad man Ed had never seen before in his life with a big, black clothes cover draped over his shoulder and an expression on his face that wordlessly informed that he would rather be running any other errand than this very one. “Ed Nygma?” had been all he had said before he unceremoniously shoved the stiff and crinkling mass of plastic into Ed’s arms and walked away, not sparing another word or a glance over his shoulder. With that, Ed had been left there at the threshold utterly confused, but all the questions that had arisen in his head had been immediately answered and the strange situation explained when he had noticed a card pinned to the cover. Textured, dark-blue with a purple shine at the back and a little umbrella in the right bottom corner, on the front it had been smooth and creamy, with a message written in elegant handwriting, asking him to come to the Iceberg Lounge for dinner the following day. Pressing the protective fabric, which undoubtedly contained his new suits inside, a little tighter to his chest, Ed hadn’t been able to help a wide, nearly besotted grin from spreading over his face. His fingers had traced the signature at the bottom of the card, significantly messier than the text above, but somehow simultaneously more pleasant to the eye. Now _that_ had sounded like an invitation to a real, proper date. 

The following night and the workday after had passed him on the restless anticipation of the evening to come, prompting him to fidget with whatever he could get his hands on--the rim of his glasses, the pens he carried in his breast pocket, the tabs of the files he had been working on. He had been at the edge of his seat to the point of biting nails, although it was a nervous quirk he had miraculously managed to give up in the first year of his university education, exchanging it for the much less healthy but more socially acceptable habit of smoking cigarettes. Although he had been more than excited, he couldn’t quite stop the anxiety from sinking its teeth into the back of his neck and making his muscles tense and stiffen. It was quite a bit too late for making a good first impression, but Ed desperately wanted to present himself well and do something to make Oswald grow even fonder of him nevertheless. He was going to wear one of the suits Oswald had gotten for him, of course, his soft yet edged voice saying _I want to dress you up_ still making a blush raise up on Ed’s cheeks every time he had remembered the minutes preceding their kiss. But he wanted to do something else, something extra, something more _personal_ that would properly convey his feelings regarding their deal- A present. He wanted to give Oswald a present, but what he could possibly gift to someone who had already owned everything a man could ever dream of? If he hadn’t burned himself on a similar attempt in the past, he would have had _made_ something--written a poem or crafted a riddle--but he didn’t want to risk doing something that could easily be misinterpreted or misunderstood, something that if not read correctly could _disappoint_. No, it had to be something safer and simpler, but still with enough workroom to be meaningful and thoughtful. 

So, when he stepped into the Iceberg Lounge on that Friday evening, dressed in one of his custom-made suits, the more vibrantly green one with a black collar and a matching tie, he kept both of his hands behind his back as he held tightly onto a big bouquet, the flowers of which he had just finished picking out minutes prior from a flower shop nearby. It was a classic and an appropriate gift for a date, but with all the different colours, meanings, and combinations it gave him enough space to make something special. There were deep purple orchids symbolizing everything Oswald was: elegance, beauty, and strength, there were little pink heathers speaking of admiration, and then peppered in between to diffuse the intensity of the colours there were white and yellow jonquils representing affection and quietly asking for the feelings to be returned. All of this had been wrapped in a semi-transparent black foil and tied together with an elaborate ribbon to make it more complete and thought-through, like it actually represented something. “Oswald,” Ed chirped as he saw the king of Gotham himself look out of one of the booths before getting up to his feet. “This is for you.” 

Raising his eyebrows as he stepped closer, Oswald’s eyes then grew wider as Ed pulled the bouquet from behind his back. “You got flowers for me?” There was a hint of disbelief to his voice as he reached out for the gift, looking at it attentively. “That’s awfully kind of you, thank you. I _am_ rather fond of orchids.” He smiled, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “As a matter of fact, this is quite a happy coincidence. I’ve got something for you, too,” he said as he turned around and limped back towards the booth he had been previously sitting at, carefully laying the bouquet on the leather seat. “Tell me, _Eddie_ , what is square in boxing, round on your finger, you can find it in every tree, but it’s also the sound of a bell?”

Ed needed an embarrassingly long moment to respond, his brain stuttering and tripping over the sudden use of an endearing nickname, the sound of it making prickling heat pinch his ears. “I- uh,” he muttered as he finally moved from where he was standing and followed Oswald to where the usually low table had been replaced with something higher and more appropriate for a meal. It had already been set and decorated for their dinner, too--with a vase with red roses and burning candles standing slightly to the side and napkins folded into ornate shapes resting on the shimmering silver plates. “A- a ring. Obviously, a ring. Why? Did you- did you buy me a ring?” 

“I had one _made_ for you,” Oswald emphasized as he picked up an indigo-coloured box, handing it over before he sat down again, a slight grimace crossing his face. He then moved nonchalantly to remove the flowers from the crystal vase before him, discarding them to the side rather carelessly and replacing them with the bouquet he had just received, making sure that not a single stalk or petal gets damaged in the process. Tilting his head slightly to the side as if to admire the sight, he made a quiet sound of contentment before adding: “I thought it would go well with your new suits. Which, by the way, this one looks _great_ on you.” He leaned forward. “You were right, green _does_ suit you.”

A shiver running down the entire length of his spine at the praise, Ed could feel a deep blush creep up his cheeks, his hands trembling slightly where they were holding onto the velvety case for his dear life, the texture of it under his fingertips serving as seemingly the only anchor keeping him from falling apart. He had to duck his head and cover his face under the excuse of sliding his glasses up to not let it show just how red he had gotten, the flush nearly making his skin sizzle. Trying to breathe steadily through his nose, he took a seat on the other side of the table, almost knocking down half of the silverware down in the process as he finally dared to take a peek into the little box. Inside, tucked into a smooth, satiny pillow, there sat possibly the most beautiful ring Ed had ever lied his eyes on, and he was able to tell it even despite never having had much of an interest in jewellery. It was made out of matt gold, dark and heavy, but there was a line of small purple stones encrusted right in the middle, separating the golden band into two. The violet path ran along the entire length except for one part where a bigger stone had been set, beset in more gold. There, on the thicker rim, Ed could see thin cavities, like there was something engraved in that place. He had to squinch his eyes and bring the ring closer to his eyes to see that the fine lines were looping and connecting, spelling out _O.C.C._ Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. “I-” Ed let out a small sound as all of his guts twisted and turned and bubbled at the sudden realisation. It was a mark. A branding. Oswald was branding him as _his_. “It’s _beautiful_.”

When he looked up, he could only briefly catch an expression of concern on Oswald’s face, but it turned into satisfaction quite swiftly as he nodded his head, making a small gesture with his hand before he settled it on one of the glasses filled with wine. “I had to guess on the size, but I hope it fits. I assumed that if I asked to see your hands back at the salon, you would immediately know what I’d been planning.”

Breathing out sharply as he smiled, Ed couldn’t help but feel his body shudder once again at the kind words, his ego pleasantly tickled as he looked back into the box. “I probably would,” he hummed as he pulled the ring out of its case and slid it onto the finger, the golden band sitting perfectly right below his second knuckle. He showed it off to Oswald, almost proudly, letting him see the purple stones glimmer in the candlelight. “It’s _really_ pretty,” he said as he put his hand back into his lap, thumb rubbing over the little bumps of the gems. “But you just got me those suits, you don’t- have to get me even _more_ presents.”

Oswald leaned out of the booth as he gestured at someone inside the club, someone who Ed hadn’t even noticed until now, before he sat back comfortably with his back resting against the wall of the booth. A waiter appeared seemingly out of nowhere, holding a tray in her hands and swiftly placed platters covered with shining lids onto the table before she faded into the background again. “I told you I wanted to spoil you, _Eddie_ ,” Oswald pointed out as he took the napkin from his plate and spread it over his lap. “And you agreed to it, as long as it wouldn’t bring too much of the G.C.P.D.’s attention to you. Well, at least that is how I understood you.” He took one of his glasses and took a sip of wine, sucking at his teeth slightly like he was either enjoying the taste or debating whether he had made the right choice regarding the alcohol. “But, of course, if something isn’t to your liking,” he looked up at Ed, “I’d be more than glad to change things to make you more… comfortable.”

“That’s not it-” Ed blurted out hurriedly, his hand snapping across the table without his say at such a velocity it only missed the lids, the candlesticks, and the vase by a miracle. His fingertips barely grazed over Oswald’s skin before he jerked his arm back as if he had burned himself on the brief contact, as if it had been the first time they had touched, as if he had just done something inappropriate. There was a high-pitched noise ringing somewhere deep in his ear as his lungs bloated and no longer wanted to allow him to exhale, expanding his ribcage to the point of hurting. Bitter bile and briny shame mixed at the back of his tongue into a revolting mixture, making his shoulders slump a little and face drop. In all twenty-eight years of his life, he had never assumed that this would be the manner in which he would have to come clean--before himself and before someone else--but there he was now, and he had successfully sabotaged himself to a point of no return, a point where he could no longer lie. “I-” he began again, carefully, his fingers scratching against the tablecloth and his eyes looking anywhere but into Oswald’s own as he slowly worked up the courage to finally admit it. “I guess… I guess I’m just a little nervous because I’m not used to getting nice things from someone, exactly.” He fidgeted with the silver fork, letting out a nervous chuckle, still not daring to raise his gaze. “That, and this is the first time I’m on a date with a man. Not that I-” he made a gesture, “not that I didn’t want to, it’s just-”

It was in that moment when Oswald interrupted him, raising slightly in his seat. “ _Eddie_.” He put such an emphasis on the nickname that Ed’s thoughts and words immediately cut off, his focus and attention shifted, and in the midst of this sudden stupefaction, he was only vaguely aware of the hot prickling high on his cheekbones. Somewhat struggling to move in the cramped space there had been left between the table and the leather seats, Oswald shifted closer, turning his entire body towards Ed as he reached out for his hand. Oswald’s hands were smaller in comparison to Ed’s own--slimmer, thinner, almost skinny with dips below the thumbs and a little dark mole on the right wrist, but they were warm to the touch and soft despite quite a few little pale scars on the knuckles and rougher bumps on the palms. They felt _safe_. “I understand,” Oswald told him, and his voice was gentle and smooth, going as far as to lose its usual sharp edge hidden underneath a layer of plush. “Probably better than most, as knowing me and my history in this city you can guess.” A small scoff escaped him, some sort of hurt and bitterness tinting the sound. “I assure you, it’s nothing. This is Gotham, nobody really _cares_ , people here have just learned how to find sensitive parts of you and then use them against you. But you don’t have to worry.” He stroked Ed’s cheek, thumb tenderly caressing the skin. “I’m not going to let _anything_ or _anyone_ hurt you.” 

His heart pounding up in his ears, Ed stared Oswald for a long while, not quite sure how to respond. There was stinging at the backs of his eyes, as if to warn that there were tears about to spill out if he didn’t blink them away quickly, and his lungs and throat felt tight like there was a relieved sob lurking somewhere in between them, crawling up to his mouth. He squeezed Oswald’s hand a little tighter as he leaned in to give him a kiss, the firmness of it verging with a desperate need for reassurance, their lips lingering on each other as if neither one wanted to break apart. Their foreheads were still touching for a second, their noses brushing against each other when Ed pulled slightly back to quietly say: “Thank you.”

Two and a half glasses of wine, forty minutes, and one delicious meal later, Ed had found himself in a vastly better and more relaxed mood, all of the stress and uncertainty dissolving off of his bones, his initial overwhelming excitement and thrill melting into pleasant contentment and comfort. He had been thoroughly enjoying himself this far, the conversation coming to him with much more ease than he had originally anticipated, had it been due to the increasing amount of alcohol in his system or having someone who had been genuinely interested in what he had to say. Usually, there would still be a certain tension in him at all times, as in all of his social interactions, the fear of doing or saying something that wasn’t fully met with the society’s norm looming over him like a dark cloud, but on that night, he was simply comfortable. He was drinking, he was talking, he was laughing, and most importantly--he was genuinely enjoying himself, the satisfaction of making Oswald smile swelling up in his chest like a bright glowing balloon. By the time they had finished eating, they were already on their second bottle of wine and they had abandoned their original places for the sake of sliding closer to one another in the booth, sitting close enough that their knees nudged at each other whenever they shifted or gesticulated more lively, close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s bodies. They were completely alone there under the Lounge’s blue lights, not even a musician giving a live performance, Oswald clearly taking Ed’s request to keep their relationship private to heart. Despite the lack of music, the candlelight and the vibrating silence of the empty club digging deep into their marrow made for an even more intimate atmosphere, as if it had created a pocket dimension just for them, torn away from the outside world in its entirety. 

“I do hope you are enjoying yourself tonight,” Oswald hummed as he refilled his glass for the third time, a droplet or two sliding down the curve of it and hitting his pale fingers. He didn’t seem to even notice it much, instead sitting back comfortable, his free hand landing on Ed’s knee for a few seconds. “I am still going to have to learn more about your preferences, but I assumed that steak would be a fairly safe bet for a dinner.” 

Ed nodded as he swallowed a sip, unable to turn his eyes away from Oswald. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the common public’s opinion that Penguin was a grotesque caricature of a man or an exaggerated parody of a neurotic when the person sitting next to him was so hypnotizingly beautiful and showing him so much care. But then again, how many people had ever been allowed to see this softer, more tender, more human face of the man ruling over the underworld? “It was really good,” Ed admitted simply instead of voicing any of his thoughts, but his eyes still were wandering around Oswald’s face, taking in every detail and burning their crystal clear image into his memory, tracing and mapping each angle, each curve, and each dip. His lashes were ridiculously long and curved, framing the icy blue of his eyes with a hint of green to it, and there were creases of dimples in his cheeks even when he wasn’t smiling. “I liked it very much, but uhm… maybe _I_ could invite you for dinner next time,” Ed suggested a bit awkwardly, knowing that he’s making a sort of a breach in the agreement they had made, knowing that _he_ was the one who was supposed to be spoiled and as much as he liked that perspective, he still enjoyed doing things on his own even more. “I’m a good cook. That’s what I mean, I’m a good cook.” 

Smirking, Oswald turned his hand slightly to wipe the corner of his mouth, a purple umbrella embroidered on the cuff of his shirt emerging from under his suit. “I cannot say that it comes to me as a surprise,” he admitted. “It’s not a secret how smart you are and that you have a remarkable set of skills. That’s what makes you interesting. At this point, you could probably tell me that you’re capable of any given thing and I would have absolutely no issues believing you. You’re special, Ed Nygma.” 

He reacted to such an amount of compliments spoken with so much honesty instantaneously--his cheeks burned and his insides twisted so violently he almost squirmed, his lips pressing into a thin line as averted his gaze, putting his glass back on the table. Fidgeting with the rim of his glasses, he bit at the inside of his cheek, his entire being growing hot as he did not quite know what to do with his hands or how to react but, _by god_ , he loved getting praised. Being given presents and looked at with a certain amount of interest and desire were one thing, but for Ed, hearing affirming words, and especially spoken with Oswald’s voice was driving him just a little bit insane. Something bubbled up in his stomach--all the moments he had longed for someone else’s touch and all the times he yearned for Oswald’s touch specifically accumulating there, only further amplified by twenty-eight years of denying a part of himself. His head felt heavy from the alcohol but he chose to think of it as working in his favour, giving him the confidence he would usually lack to adjust to how comfortable he had become, turning back to Oswald and moving in straight to press their lips together, a bit more forcefully this time. For a split of a second, he had feared that he would be met with hesitation or reluctance, but he was kissed back with as much eagerness, Oswald’s fingers coming up to stroke against Ed’s cheek. They lasted like this for a brief bit, tasting the same sweet wine on each other before Ed broke apart, barely for an inch, exhaled heavily and whispered: “ _Daddy_.”

Oswald stared at him for full five seconds, his breathing hitching ever so slightly as if his heart skipped a beat, a moment of near-perfect stillness before his hand slid down to clench on Ed’s black tie and pull him into a kiss once again, teeth pinching. There was a small, needy sound at the back of Ed’s throat as he shifted to the side, leaning over more with blood pulsating in his ears so loudly it seemed to resonate through the inside of his skull and completely deprive him of all thoughts. Scorching heat pooled deep down in his belly, making him tingle all the way from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes when he felt another tug around his throat, wordlessly telling him to _come here_. Not needing any further invitations, Ed scrambled to move, certainly not as gracefully as he would had hoped for but at the same time too caught up in the heat of the moment to care about the appearances anymore, completely focused on sitting himself down in Oswald’s lap, leg on each of his sides. He couldn’t help but twitch when he felt hands settle down on his thighs, thumbs stroking hard enough to be felt through the fabric yet light enough to not leave bruises, his hips bucking involuntarily to get at least a silver of friction where burning pressure was quickly building up. He then shrugged his jacket off and let it slip down to the ground while his hands busied themselves with cupping Oswald’s face, wandering down his slim neck to finally dig into the fabric of the tie, loosening it up and making access to the collar of the black shirt. It was only when he grabbed at the buttons that he was stopped rapidly, the intoxicating kiss broken. “No, don’t.”

“I-” Ed breathed out as he immediately pulled back and leaned so far back he knocked over something on the table. He let go of the fabric with his heart thrashing violently in his chest like it wanted to shatter his sternum and beat his lungs black and blue, nausea filling up the spaces that seconds prior were occupied by desire. “I’m sorry,” he stuttered, terrified that he had just made an unforgivable mistake, that he had completely misinterpreted the situation and took a step too far. “I’m _so_ sorry, I-”

Stopping him in the midst of babbling, Oswald brought him back down by wrapping an arm around the small of his back and pulling him close, stretching his neck up to give him a quick peck. “Don’t apologize,” he said, looking Ed straight in the eyes while his fingers found the buttons of his waistcoat, opening it up, his breathing still accelerated. “I just want to keep my clothes on, that’s all.” He reached up to undo Ed’s tie, fingertips skimming over the flushed-up skin. “Call me that _again_.”

And, just like that, Ed’s mind was in the right place again, the atmosphere snapping right to where it had been as if it hadn’t been interrupted at all. He kissed Oswald again while slender fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, then moving to the corner of his lips, along the jawline and all the way up to his ear, only to then repeat himself, even heavier and darker than the last time. “Daddy-” Ed murmured again, his breathing getting stuck in his throat when he felt fingertips lightly trace over his naked torso, from his chest, through his belly, all the way down to right under his navel where the edge of his pants was constricting him just a little too tightly. His entire body felt like it was on fire, each touch bringing as much relief as it was feeding the flames to rise even higher and burn brighter, the pressure slowly turning into aching. Forgetting how to breathe, he had to screw his eyes shut and force an obscene sound to the very back of his mouth and block it up with his tongue when there were lips peppering kisses over his collar bones the very same seconds the hips underneath him moved up to meet his own. A slow, gentle bite right where his neck connected with his shoulder was his breaking point, his fingers clenching on Oswald’s shoulders when he begged: “ _Please_.” 

It was enough of the teasing and the taunting for the both of them at that point, for as soon as that single word rolled off the tip of Ed’s tongue, there they were kissing again, more feverishly this time, like there was hunger gnawing at their cramping insides and it could only be satisfied and the tension gone through the other one’s touch. They unbuttoned each other’s pants hurriedly, fighting with the buttons and tugging at the zippers, fingers trembling from anticipation far too greatly to get a proper grip. Ed’s glasses were sliding off his glistening nose, his hair giving up on the gel to spill out and twist on his forehead when he moved in as close as he could, hands pushing the underwear down. There was a sweet moment of brief relief when Oswald’s hand wrapped around both of them, followed by a satisfied groan of contentment and a hoarse: “ _Good boy_.”

Ed moaned. This simple sentence, two words, two _syllables_ were enough to convince him to let go of anything that had still been holding him back until this point, to make his mouth fall open, his breathing stutter, his toes curl. Oswald was looking up at him intently and he could feel the weight of his gaze burn his skin just as much as his lips seconds prior, but his mind was completely empty, all thoughts blurred into white noise and shrouded in pink mist screaming for more, more, more. The muscles in his stomach were twitching and jumping involuntarily at each stroke, pleasure radiating through all of his fibers in waves, making the ends of his nerves sizzle and sparkle. His hips were bucking to the excruciating rhythm Oswald’s hand had set in a mindless search for relief, the pressure that had originally only built down in his belly not spreading all the way up to his stomach. “Oh, dear,” was the only coherent thing he could press through his tightened throat when he curled his arm around Oswald’s neck to pull him into an open-mouthed kiss, his other hand reaching down to wrap around Oswald’s own, desperately trying to hurry him up. He had dreamed hazy dreams of it sometimes and it felt so, _so_ good that Ed was certain that if the release didn’t come swiftly, he would simply fall apart into pieces. The wet friction of skin gliding against skin and heavy breathing in between sloppy kisses were forcing his whole frame to tremble, his movements to stutter, his heart to choke on its own quickened pace.

Nails of his free hand grazing over Ed’s back and teeth pitching at his bottom lip, Oswald breathed out: “That’s _my_ good boy”, and Ed was gone. He hadn’t expected to last long, but the way his body suddenly crashed violently still took him by surprise, almost causing him to fold in half as he grit his teeth to the point they creaked, the muscles of his thighs and belly shaking, exhales coming out in short, sharp sequences. All of the cells in his body tensed up in unison to completely blind him and force broken, gasping sounds out of his throat as he leaned in to hide his face in the crook of Oswald’s neck, feeling him tremble just as much. He was shivering all over as he became oversensitive, colourful spots appearing under his tightly-shut eyes, nose digging into the warm skin, hand still riding out the high until it became too much. With his mind hazy and his eyes closed, Ed completely lost any sense of time, not knowing and not _wanting_ to know for how long they had stayed like this, breathless and curled into each other, with sticky fingers and racing hearts. It wasn’t until the initial bliss had begun to slowly wear off when Oswald shifted, the hand he so far had had on Ed’s side now sliding to the back of his head, combing through the hair and pulling him closer to press a kiss to his ear. “You’re such a good boy, Eddie,” he murmured, causing something deep in Ed’s guts to shift and twist and turn nearly painfully, his eyes stinging when he nuzzled at Oswald’s neck a little more. There was an exhausted smile quirking the very corner of his mouth as he felt bliss far greater than what could be achieved physically overflow him, a steady hand still petting his hair.

He belonged to someone.


	9. nine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ  
> Hi! I'm bringing you the next chapter because there's no point in sitting on it when I've actually finished writing it. With that being said I do want to preface by saying that I've just moved into a different country a week ago (hence the delay) and I'm having a difficult time adjusting to living here in between trying to find a job so I don't starve in two months when my money runs out. So with that being said from now on you should expect less regular updates. I still love this AU with my whole heart but my mental health is kinda fragile right now and hopefully soon I will be busy with a job and then with uni and I'll only have time to write to cram in between all of that. I hope you'll be understanding and enjoy when I upload nevertheless :) drop a few words in the comments if you wanna I'd really appreciate them

He was happy.

Few weeks had passed since they had had their first proper date, all picture-perfect with flowers and gifts and a candle-lit dinner eaten safely tucked away in one of the Iceberg Lounge’s booths, but that had later rather unexpectedly escalated past even the wildest of expectations. Ed wouldn’t necessarily describe himself as shy as much as he would say that he was not very proficient in navigating social situations or understanding nonverbal clues, but even assuming that his confidence had been at an average level, the sheer boldness of how he had behaved that evening still brought half-embarrassed blush up his neck. Normally, he hadn’t been the one to act so bluntly and so directly, without beating around the bush or avoiding straightforward confrontation, always resorting to more vague and ambiguous ways of communication. But he had not regretted that he had played on that drunken impulse for even a split of a second and, ironically, it had seemed that in the end, it had been one of the best decisions he had ever made. It had not, however, been the sudden explosion of the ardour that had been steadily growing between for months that had been lingering in his mind, but rather what had come shortly after--the gentle fingers combing through his hair, the tender hands cupping his face, the soft kisses placed upon his lips. He had not realized just how greatly he had needed this before that night, and not only the reassurance and affirmation telling him that it was okay to embrace a part of himself he had been trying to hide all his life, but most importantly the feeling of being wanted and adored. As he lied in his bed later that night, watching stains of neon green pouring through the windows flicker on and off, he had already known that--for him, at least--this had no longer been a matter of just keeping company or expressing admiration to feed one’s ego. Ed was falling in love, and he was falling at an alarming pace. 

And whoever could blame him for that? Throughout his life, with all of his behavioural quirks and intense interests and difficulties with expressing himself in a way that would be understandable for others, there hardly had been a person who wouldn’t mock or tease or  _ bully _ him for the way his brain had been wired. Meanwhile, Oswald had been nothing but a perfect gentleman to him, respectful of his boundaries and understanding of his unusual mannerisms and little oddities, going even as far as to inquire about things that certainly hadn’t cared for but known that Ed had been fond of. As the time had progressed, it had seemed that no matter the initial intentions or motivations, at a certain point Oswald had begun taking pleasure in Ed’s company just for the sake of it, and less for having someone around to admire him as Fish had once put it. Without a doubt, there had been a heavy matter of power, its dynamics, and the means of establishing it coming into play regarding all the various ways in which Oswald had been showering Ed with gifts, but at the same time, they had been so very well selected and thought-through that they had been showing a certain amount of care and effort, too. It had quickly turned out that the bespoke suits and the custom-made ring were merely the beginning and that Oswald had fully intended to go above and beyond to provide anything he deemed either necessary or appropriate, and everything had to be from the absolute top of the shelves. Every time they would have dinner, lunch, or drinks together, he had been bound to bring some sort of an expensive present, and even when there had been stretches when they hadn’t seen each other in days, there had been deliveries arriving at Ed’s front door. Suits, ties, cuff pins, shoes, perfumes, food, alcohol, lab equipment, books, and what had been especially making Ed’s heart sing--rare puzzles and riddles he would have had been otherwise unable to get his hands on. Oh, he felt  _ spoiled _ . 

But, all in all, what had been bringing Ed the most joy had been the sheer knowledge that someone _ cared _ . He would have had lied if he had said that his life hadn’t vastly improved ever since he had started seeing Oswald, and not just because of the pricey and fancy things steadily filling his apartment more and more or the excitement of easily solving ostensibly impossible puzzles. His mental health had also become better, keeping itself at a higher-than-usual but steady level through his days and nights, spiking up higher whenever he had had a meeting to look forward to. Although it hadn’t been enough to keep Riddler away for good, his very being integrated into Ed’s brain, it had definitely made it easier to ignore the snarky, mean-spirited, or downright cruel remarks he had been making every time there had been a gift arriving or a date upcoming. Every so often he would pop up out of the blue--sometimes fake-sweet, sometimes angry, sometimes cold--blabbering about wasting their potential and missing an opportunity for something great, something they deserve. No matter his attitude at the start, he then would inevitably get heated by the end, calling Ed a naive whore before disappearing into his void for a few, blissfully quiet days. The vile words he would speak just for the sake of spoiling Ed’s mood still ached at times, but less so now when Ed had known that there had been someone who had cherished him. Frankly, simply running a thumb over the gems encrusted into the ring he had been wearing day and night on his middle finger had proved itself to be an excellent tool to immediately stop him from letting any sort of hurt get to him at the casual unpleasantries he had been experiencing at work on a daily basies. And, really, how could he possibly pay mind to being dismissed by Gordon, with his holier-than-thou behaviour and Messiah complex, or snapped at by Bullock, a sad shell of a man always faintly smelling of booze, when he had know that  _ the _ Penguin fancied him?

Though, in the midst of it all, Ed would have to be at least half as smart as he was in order not to see that, over the course of several weeks ,some of the employees of the G.C.P.D. had been slowly but surely changing his attitude towards him. He hadn’t noticed it right away, too intoxicated from the taste of Oswald’s lips and too high on the perspective of seeing him again, walking with his head in the clouds, fulfilling his duties absentimindedly and catching himself on just standing still by the microscope or the files without even seeing them. It had only been once he had adjusted to his new relationship that his dulled mind sharpeend itself again, on the rough edges of the gifted puzzles and the broken teeth of cases piling up on his desk that it had become apparent to him that lately he had been more…  _ visible _ . Now, normally he didn’t like it. He didn’t like to be seen, he didn’t like to have eyes on him, all too aware that the vast majority of the time there had been there just too look for cracks and splits in his armours, to find tender spots and then stab at them mercilessly with some sort of twisted pleasure. But this had been  _ different _ . People had been  _ nice  _ to him and their looks, their smiles, their words all felt like disgusting sludge smeared over his skin and staining his clothes, all too aware that their sudden kindness had found its roots in the change of his appearance and the slight boost of his confidence. Fake sweetness and make-pretend good will had been meaningless when their source had been so rotten, turning casual conversations sour and professional conversations bitter. He wanted to believe there had been some truth to this hospitality, but Oswald quickly pushed that thought of his head, bringing his own past and present as an example. Had it not been for Ed’s more well-fitting suits and a new haircut, they all would have had still been looking down upon him, and if anything this change had made Ed feel even more distant from everyone around him.

Of course, this hadn’t had an impact on every person who would get into a regular contact with him, a significant portion of them remaining as unnecessarily means as always, but now it seemed that Ed had been stuck between people who were openly hostile and those who would be so, had he still been wearing his old clothes and walking with his head down. And then there was Kristen. Although his love for her had been long gone and replaced, he still cared for her and it ached him to think that she belonged to either one of those groups. The truth was that despite being more than happy with the arrangement he had with Oswald, Ed still longer for someone he could simply chat with at work, maybe have a drink after hours--someone he could call his  _ friend _ . With how poor his social life was, Kristen seemed like the most obvious choice, so knowing how hesitent she had been to all of his attempts of getting close, he had elected to give her space this time. So, when one afternoon she walked up to him while he was browsing through the cabinets near the holding cells, the willpower it took him not to jump at the opportunity to start a conversation with a riddle made his teeth hurt. He had long learned that these weren’t very much appreciated around the police station the hard way. “Mr Nygma,” she greeted him casually as she looked down at the folder in her hands, only giving him a glance from the side. 

Nodding his head in acknowledgment, Ed kept looking at the tabs flicking through his fingers, not wanting to let it show that his pulse spiked up slightly the seocnd he saw her out of the corner of his eyes. “Ms Kringle,” he responded simply, closing the drawer and pulling another one, skimming over the names there. Smith, Cooper. Smith, Constantin Adam. Smith, Coryell. He scrunched his eyebrows. All the files of the currently held suspects were kept in here, but there was one missing, the one he was specifically looking for to complete one of his latest reports. Someone must have taken it and-

“I believe this is what you’re looking for,” Kristen interrupted his rapidly accelerating thoughts, handing him over the folder she had been holding this far, observing him. Ah, yes. Smith, Cory Michael. Exactly what Ed had been looking for, and seeing how it was Kristen’s job to make sure that all the files are properly handled, used, and then archived, he should have had asked her right away. He risked giving her a smile, mouth already opening to say a thank you when she spoke up again, tilting her head to the side with curiosity. “You seem… different.”

With his eyes growing wide, Ed made an incoherent sound, something between surprise and disbelief, a scoff melted together with a guttural inhale, three different expressions flexing over the muscles of his face within a single second. This was the first time someone had so directly confronted him about the changes that had been hapening to him over the course of what had now been months, all of this strange process starting with Tom Dougherty’s murder, though officially he was considered a knave--not even a missing person. “I- different?” Ed echoed, realizing to his dismay that he had to play stupid, pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about, and hoping he was still good enough of an actor to make her believe his words. “Well, I was at a hairdresser’s last week,” he told her, running a hand over the shaved back of his head. Usually, he kept it a bit longer than this, but with his warderobe and half of his apartament having a complete makeover, he felt as though a haircut was in place, too. He wanted to look properly put-together and presentable for Oswald, and although initially Ed hadn’t been sure if the new hair suited him, there was enough round red bruises under the collar of his shirt to sway his judgement to a firm yes. 

Except, Kristen wasn’t buying his act. “Yes, I’ve noticed, but that’s not it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, looking over his frame before turning her gaze right into his eyes, like she could see past all the walls he had built around himself and stare straight into his soul. “I don’t-” she then put her hand forward, almost touching Ed’s own, “I don’t mean to be intrusive.” She pulled it back, tucking it under the other arm’s elbow. “Especially not after you’ve stepped back and given me space, but… Mr Nygma, I think it’s safe to say that I know you a little better than most of the people working at this station. So, I've  _ also _ noticed that you seem  _ happier _ . And that I’m glad you do, whatever the reason might be.”

Blinking, Ed needed roughly five seconds to go over every possible reason that could have had prompted Kristen to keep talking to him and he had managed to hardly turn up with any. Had it been a work-related thing, she would have had given him the file and gone away without standing there and looking at him with interest, like she had  _ known _ he had had a secret and she wanted to dig it out and see it in all of its blue-tinted and black-feathered glory. She hadn’t been the most inquisitive person, straying from the gossip and station’s smack talk as best as she could, only listening to it hesitantly when in the company of her slimy boyfriends, so it hadn’t been just for the sake of killing the time on the clock, either. Perhaps she had still thought that he was in love with her, and thus able to do just about anything for her should she wish for it, but she hadn’t been the one to use others, which excluded the last reason of striking up a conversation besides genuinely wanting to. “Uh,” Ed muttered, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth at this realization. She  _ did _ like him. She  _ did _ like him, and being the kind person she was, Ed decided she deserved some carefully measured honesty. “I, uh, I’m actually seeing someone,” he explained to her, tugging at the lapel of his suit slightly. “It was a gift.”

Kristen didn’t respond right away, opening her mouth with a quiet smack as if this had been the very last thing she had expected to hear, her expression changing a little, albeit in a rather unclear way. “Oh, I see. That explains it, doesn’t she?” she asked, just as ambiguously and likely not expecting an answer either as she averted her gaze down to her feet for a moment. “You seem… more confident. I’m glad she’s making you believe in yourself more.”

“ _ He _ is,” Ed corrected her, and by god did it feel  _ good _ to finally say it out loud, to say it to someone other than Oswald himself or Riddler, to someone who hadn’t known this about him before. It was liberating and the rush of it softened the bewilderment on Kristen’s face upon hearing this harder, more angular and sharp-edged sound in place of the soft curves she had expected. “Ms Kringle, I was…  _ so  _ infatuated with you, and I was acting inappropriately because of this, and I  _ am _ sorry, but I can assure you it’s all gone now,” he then told her, caught in the moment, pressing the folder a little tighter against his chest, shifting the weight of his body from one foot to the other and then back. “And I… I was hoping that, maybe, we could forget about all this and… be friends?”

The question seemed like an entirely reasonable thing to inquire, given the context and their steadily warming relationship but Ed’s lungs still felt a little heavier when he inhaled shakily through his nose. His life had been so good since he had started seeing Oswald regularly, Riddler had been speaking up less often, work had been more enjoyable, his mind occupied with newer and rarer stimuli, but if there was a blossoming friendship between him and Kristen on top of that… that would be perfect. “Well,” she told him, picking her words carefully. “Since you asked so politely, I think it would be rude to decline the offer.” She gave a smile, she gave him an honest smile reaching all the way up to her big green eyes. “Perhaps we should have coffee together, sometime. Good day now, Mr Nygma.”

It seemed that everything was finally falling into place, Ed thought to himself almost five hours later, where he stood in the elevator taking him through the countless floors to the top of the skyscraper where the Iceberg Lounge was situated, a familiar melody playing above his head. Over the weeks he had gotten so used to his routine of coming there every other day--was it to see Oswald or to simply have a drink--that at some point his brain had begun tuning out the journey from the police station to the club, leaving him free to ponder, and that day… that day felt like the best one he had lived through yet. Although it didn’t appear so at the time regaining his senses at the Iceberg Lounge almost half a year ago, after suffering a nervous breakdown over murdering Tom Dougherty, had been a turning point that had only changed everything for the better. When he thought that his life was about to end, either due to being found out by the police or dying at the hands of one of Penguin’s goons, it had in fact only begun. And there he was now, months later, thriving, enjoying his work more than ever before, being in a fulfilling relationship where he was spoiled more than he could dream of, able to do as much extensive research as he wanted, and now on top of this he had started something that seemed like a beginning of a good, healthy friendship. Perhaps it was a bit ridiculous of him to think, but to a certain degree, he believed that it was fate that had brought him there. He struggled to find a different explanation for this other than that he and Oswald had simply been made for each other, fitting together like two jigsaw pieces. Or perhaps it was just the pink mist surrounding him speaking. But whatever it might have been, Ed was happier than ever before and more in love that he could ever believe he was capable or worthy of-

“You...  _ do _ know that he doesn’t love you back, right?” Riddler asked him with a sickly delighted edge to it, his darkened eyes looking up at the numbers changing above the doors. He was standing there as nonchalant as always, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants, swaying slightly at the soles of his feet, buzzing with excitement at the low blow he had just delivered, awaiting an exaggerated and emotional response. Ed was very much not going to give him the satisfaction of allowing being brought to panic after getting poked in an especially tender spot, a shot right into the middle of his insecurity in hopes of shattering everything he had been building up since he and Oswald had first kissed. This was his time to be happy. “But I could make him.”

With the elevator pinging, announcing its arrival at the right floor, Ed didn’t waste even a single second to step outside, not even doing as much as to glance over his shoulder at the twisted version of himself dressed in black. “No,” he just growled, reaching up to straighten his tie and heading for the Lounge’s entrance. “He doesn’t have to,” he stated and he meant it, no matter how bitter-sweet it tasted on his tongue as soon as it rolled off of it, leaving a sharp aftertaste shoving fine needles into the soft flesh. The truth was, no matter how much in love Ed was falling in and no matter how being spoiled rotten made him feel adored, he did not quite expect Oswald to love him back. Oswald had been taking care of him, yes, showering with meticulously selected gifts, murmuring words of praise into prickling ears, tracing soft fingertips over shivering skin, but had there really been any infatuation in his actions? Or had it been simply a matter of indulging in just how much power he knew he held over Ed, knowing how much his words and actions influenced another person? The odds were that it had been the latter--the thrill of having someone dependent on him, addicted to his presence, to his affirmation, to his approval, but... Ed didn’t mind. As long as he could have Oswald look at him with a softness in his eyes, stroke a thumb over his cheek, and call him  _ his good boy _ , Ed was content. So content, in fact, that he barely paid any attention to the reluctant, almost venomous look Fish had thrown at him as he stepped into the club while she was leaving, a leather jacket thrown over her shoulders and her cartoonishly oversized, huge bodyguard following her like a loyal dog. She hadn’t said a word as she passed by, but by that time Ed had already learned what her eyes said when she stared at him from under heavy lids. “Careful,” she was signalling. “One wrong move and you’re  _ dead _ .”

As he walked into the Iceberg Lounge, basked in blue light and smelling of vanilla mixed with alcohol, he almost felt like coming home, a strange sense of longing easying in his heart and tenseness leaving his shoulder as soon as he crossed the threshold. Joyous smile spread over his face when he saw Oswald sitting by the bar with crystal glass in his hand, beautiful as always in his black striped suit and a purple tie with floral pattern embroidered into it with a silver thread. “Eddie, my dear,” he spoke his with tenderness in his voice as he put his drink down, the choice of words making a pleasant shiver run down Ed’s back. “I’ve got something for you.”

Ed walked across the club quickly with his whole body itching, like he was dying for the next dose of a drug and he could not know peace until he’s gotten his fix. “You did?” he asked with a faltering, delighted tone as he bent down for a kiss, tasting a drop of expensive whisky on his lips, lungs taking in the familiar, heavy scent with a spicy note to it. He sat down on one of the stools, his heart speeding up a little bit with excitement as it usually did when he was in Oswald’s presence, when he heard words of praise, or when he was about to be given yet another carefully selected present.

“Of course,” Oswald nodded as he snapped his fingers at the bartender, the woman disappearing behind the counter for a brief second before emerging with a package, placing it on the smooth wooden surface. Judging by its size and the dimension, there were books inside, but Ed would rather not make any assumptions to give a more authentic reaction upon opening it up. It was wrapped in black-and-white paper as usually, with a purple ribbon on top and a card with the signature umbrella on it, without a doubt holding a sweet sweet words written in Oswald’s messy handwriting on the other side. There was a drawer in Ed’s desk back in his apartment almost filled to the brim with these tickets, and although he wouldn’t necessarily call himself a sentimentalist, he did enjoy looking through them every so often, especially during the periods when either one of them was simply too busy with work to meet often enough to satisfy the craving for the other one’s company. “You know how much I like spoiling  _ you. _ ”

Lovestruck grin spreading over his face and heat rising up in his cheeks, Ed reached for the gift, carefully detaching the card from it and setting it on the side, fully intending on reading it ten times over a little bit later, once the bartender had been dismissed and he and Oswald had been left alone. He pulled the strings of the silky ribbon to untie it and slid his fingers under the pieces of tape to separate it from the paper, eager to see what had been hidden underneath. “ _ Oh- _ ” he let out a sound of genuine surprise as his eyes fell upon three tomes of books in pristine condition stacked on top of each other, every single one of them bound in leather with golden letters embossed into the covers. “Oh, Oswald-” Ed gasped, taking the first one of them into his hands and opening it up slowly, hearing a satisfying creak of its spine. There, before him, were laying all three volumes of Valentin Drozdov’s “Puzzling Puzzles”--a collection of puzzles and riddles written and published seventy years ago in a very limited number, making them incredibly challenging to find in Russian and even more so translated to any other language. There were so few of them that there had been once a time when Ed had been so determined on getting them that he even began picking up Russian in order to be able to solve the riddles once he had gotten his hands on the books, but the issue was that he never had. They were  _ impossible _ to find. “How did you…?”

Chuckling, Oswald leaned in, his hand resting up on Ed’s thigh as he said sweetly: “I told you I could get you anything you wanted, didn’t I?” he asked, and there was satisfaction all over his face and voice, clearly content with being able to render Ed almost speechless. “You told me about those books and how you’ve been looking for them for a decade, so I thought they would make for a good gift. They  _ weren’t _ easy to find, but…” his voice lowered. “Let’s just say there isn’t anything I wouldn’t be able to get for  _ my boy _ .”

Sharp exhale leaving his throat, Ed put the book back down carefully before cupping Oswald’s face with both hands and kissing him deeply, making sure to properly express just how grateful he was, his head spinning a little bit from the sheer intensity of it. There was some work still left for him at home alongside unfinished experiments, but he was already considering staying in the Lounge for the night. “Thank you,” he gasped as the broke apart, his heart beating up in his ears. “Really, I- and you got the English translations, too? There were only ten or so copies of those, but… I shouldn’t really be surprised you found them.” Scoffing, he turned back to the newly acquired treasure, his fingertips tingling to turn the page and eat through the riddles inside like they could silence the hunger for knowledge so everpresent deep in his stomach since his earliest days. He felt like a child, unable to keep all of the excitement to the inside. He laughed, pulling Oswald in for yet another kiss, a softer one this time, more tender and fuzzy at the rims. “Thank you,” he murmured, but it sounded almost like an I love you. 

Oswald smirked, rubbing a thumb over Ed’s cheek. “I do like to see you so happy, baby,” he hummed warmly, pulling back slightly. “I know you’re probably impatient to get into digging through them, but I think we should have dinner first. It’s already eight, you must be starving.” He waved his hand at the bartender again, signalling her to bring out the food as he stood up from the stool, reaching for his cane and offering his free arm to Ed. “You were late,” he then pointed out, his tone shifting. “You didn’t call, you didn’t text. I was starting to worry something has happened to you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ed apologized as he carefully grabbed his books and followed Oswald over to where a table had been set for them, fresh flowers sitting in the vase and candles burning. “I, uh… some of the detectives called us in for a drug bust. It wasn’t any of your associates, don’t worry, but it was a  _ massive _ warehouse and we ended up with five crates of evidence to work through before we were allowed to get off the clock. And then I also got caught up talking to Kristen. Funny story, actually. I used to be in love with her, but she didn’t really reciprocate but now she wants to be friends with me,” he carried on as he spread a napkin over his lap, talking away about his day as he always had after work, knowing that Oswald was the one person interested in his life.

He failed to notice. 


	10. ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ  
> Hello all I still haven't found a job so I wrote this chapter much sooner than I originally anticipated because I'm desperately trying to maintain the illusion that I actually have any control of my life whatsoever which more often than not is a vile lie. No but the reason why I'm kindly asking you to read this note is because I've finished planning out the rest of this AU and I've decided on some things so I would like to kindly ask you to look up at the tags and read through them once again and that is all what I'm going to say in the matter. But I will once again beg for comments because I crave external validation 👁️👄👁️

He had changed.

There was no denying to the fact that, as the days had piled up into weeks, and then the weeks had piled up into months, Ed’s life had developed and altered on a scale so great that it had no longer been recognizable. Though to a certain degree it had been very much expected, as well as being an obvious and natural progression of the shifting circumstances impacting his surroundings and people in them, it still had taken him quite a while to realize just how deeply those changes had run. At the first glance, it seemed as though there had been many parts left that had remained unaffected by the events unfolding rapidly after one another, but it was merely an illusion caught on the rippled surface of reality. Things had not been like they once were, their differences spanning all the way from the obvious alterations in his appearance all the down to the tiny details and tweak of his everyday life--a new, shining ring on his finger, a more expensive perfume on his neck, a different bed to sleep in and someone to share it with. Even to the people he had hardly come to contact with or had the rather questionable pleasure of interacting with would be able to tell that he had not been the same person as he had been six months prior, his head suddenly held higher, more confidence in the way he moved, a dose of firmness in his words. He was still himself with all of his behavioural quirks and characteristic mannerisms, sometimes clueless during conversations and always fiercely passionate about the things he loved, but he no longer hated himself for it, nor did he feel the need to be ashamed of who he was. It was a painstakingly slow process of unlearning hurtful things ingrained into his head at a young age and fed into by years of self-loathing and social exclusion but he was swiftly adjusting his mindest. As it had turned out, all he needed to become a better, more refined version of himself was simply someone who believed in him.

Once he had made a rather significant progress with reorganizing and remodelling the inside of his head, it had been the time for him to finally set himself comfortably into this new position and enjoy it to the fullest extent, use all the opportunities and benefits he had had at hand to fulfil one of his life’s longest-running dreams. He had finally had the chance to plunge deep into the cold, dark waters of the underworld and observe it from up close, learn the patterns in which the currents shifted, map out the harsh magnitude of it, and learn how to navigate through it wisely and efficiently. At last, he could look up close at the rotten underbelly of the city, learn all of its weak, soft spots and ticker patches of skin and see what made it tick. The information that could satisfy his morbid curiosity was out there for the taking and he had not been shy to reach for it, sometimes even going as far to poke at the things to see what would happen, and all of that he could do and enjoy knowing that his safety had been guaranteed. As far as the regulars and the casual visitors of the Iceberg Lounge had been concerned, Ed had been a nobody, just another forgettable face swimming through the endless stream of people mingling under the sharp blue lights with ridiculously overpriced drinks in their hands. But for the selected few, the club’s security and the personal bodyguards, he had been a target to protect, have an eye on as he stuck his nose where it had not necessarily been supposed to be, and keep safe at all cost under the threat of facing Penguin’s wrath. While he was in the Iceberg Lounge or anywhere around it, Ed had been untouchable on the accounts of being the king of Gotham’s precious companion, his boy whom he loved to spoil and kiss, and god have mercy over anyone who would ever allow any harm to come to him. 

It had been quite thrilling to see his own importance and significance grow the longer he had stayed by Oswald’s side, knowing that he had no longer been alone and that, were he encounter any problems he wouldn’t be able to conquer alone, there had been quite an arsenal behind him to help with resolving it. But the use of it had, of course, remained purely theoretical and as a just-in-case scenario, a promise of power sometimes whispered lowly into his ear while wine-stained lips brushed against the shell of it. This pledge of protection had been but one of the many perks of being in Oswald Cobblepot’s good grace, but all in all, most of the time the sheer fact of being in love had felt like a reward. Ed had never loved anyone so deeply and he sincerely doubted that he would ever be able to love somebody again, should anything to his relationship with Oswald happen in the future. He had suspected that the only way they would no longer be together would be through the death of either one of them, but Ed preferred not to entertain that thought too often, or think about what would happen as the next months passed. As to all matter of life, also to this, there had been the pros and the cons, and though the former had vastly overweighed the latter, the downsides still could not be ignored. Somewhere along the way in his unravelling of the more polished version of himself, people had begun to notice, as though he had suddenly become visible to them instead of just being a beige stain in the background, and it had only been a matter of time until someone had begun asking questions. It had only been lately when Ed had realized that living through the new, exciting chapter of his life had also meant that he would eventually have to close the previous one and that he would be better off doing it himself than having someone do it for him. 

With the pink mist slowly dissolving from before his eyes, the stress of coming to work had been gradually returning, turning some of the most enjoyable tasks sour and making tension creep up his body and loom over him like an unwanted guest. The most logical step for him would be to simply turn his resignation onto the Commissioner’s desk, to quit the job and fully devote himself to this other life he had been living for months already, but the truth was that he still did not feel quite ready for it. Yes, spending hours on end on Oswald’s side, working scene assessments for him, listening to the confidential conversations, and getting a taste of the underworld had toughened him a little, made him rougher at the edges, and more indifferent to the horrors of the city, but it still didn’t feel like enough. There were still too many cracks in his armours and too many soft, fleshy places someone could use against him to just leave everything behind, and especially now when both of his lives had seemed to become sorted out. It was quite the irony that when he had thought that everything was falling into place already, he realized that some of the pieces didn’t fit quite together and disturbed the image-

“Just let me handle this.”

Ed’s fingers instantaneously froze under the stream of increasingly colder water where he had been absentmindedly washing the lenses of his glasses for the past minutes, using a break between writing reports to let himself catch a breath and sort through his thoughts. Giving an exasperated sigh, he raised his head to attempt focusing his gaze on the reflection of a dark silhouette standing right behind him, Riddler’s entire frame sharper at the edges and tensed up visibly despite the uncorrected blurriness. For these past six months, and especially in the most recent weeks, Ed hadn’t been the only one going through noticeable changes, and it was Riddler’s transition from cold and somewhat disgusted disapproval to growing insistence and pressure that had been causing Ed the most issues with trying to keep his two lives from bleeding into one another. There had been a period shortly before Ed had first played and sang for Oswald when Riddler had seemed to fall into slumber, a hibernation of sorts, remaining silent and invisible for stretches of time so long that Ed had begun thinking--or hoping, perhaps--that he would never come back again. But once his relationship with Oswald had started, Riddler had returned and he had been more cruel than ever before, sneering and taunting and criticizing, crawling under Ed’s skin and bouncing off the inside of his skull like a malicious echo. It was almost as though he wanted to emotionally compromise Ed to a point where he’d become a danger to himself, and then suddenly he shifted his attitude again, fake sweetness in his voice and forced smiles on his face, acting like he had had sound advice like he actually cared for Ed’s well-being. Having this sort of mind games being played out against him in his own head was exhausting, only putting more troubles on his already overflowing plate, and so all the reaction Ed had allowed himself to give was looking back down at his glasses and giving a short: “No.”

Air wheezing sharply through his teeth, Riddler moved from where he had been standing, leaning against one of the washbins as he put his other hand up on his hip, cloudy head cocking to the side. “You and I both know that you clearly don’t know how to handle… all this,” as to emphasize his point, he made a wide gesture around, theatrical and overly dramatic as always. “You’ve always been bad with change and accepting new circumstances, but come on now, it’s time to move on. Just face it, Ed, you don’t have the guts to just ditch this job and go live out your criminal fantasy and use our potential. And that,” he paused to curl his hands into fists and point both of his thumbs towards his own chest, “is where I come in.”

Shaking his head, Ed wiped the droplets from his glasses with a piece of paper towel before putting them back on, looking at Riddler’s now sharpened expression with reluctance. “I like this job,” he stressed it out, making sure to let each and every one of his words ring out clearly. “Especially now people are finally starting to be nice to me. I might actually end up making friends here!” He reached up to his neck to straighten out the knot of his tie, his golden ring with O.C.C. engraved by the purple stones shining in the locker room’s dim lights. “The only reason I would resign would be if Oswald asked me to, or if someone here found out about us. Neither of which is going to happen because he actually cares about me.”

Riddler pinched at the bridge of his nose like he had suddenly gotten a headache, giving out a groan as he rolled his dark eyes. “There are just so many things wrong with what you’ve just said, oh my god, I don’t even know where to start. Okay, so, one,” he stuck out his index finger and pressed it up against his cheekbone so hard the knuckle turned white, “nobody here actually likes you. They just think that you finally look somewhat fuckable, so they want to get into your pants. Well, at least until you open your mouth. Two,” middle finger, next to the nostril, folding the wing of it and causing the skin to crease, “you’re bored here. The cases they’re giving us are children’s play, and Gordon won’t let you get onto anything more complex because you just annoy him too much. Three,” the ring finger, strangely naked without the golden band on it, tucking snuggly right into the cupid’s bow, filling the air with an additional second of silence, “Oswald is going to get bored of you. You’re too soft, you don’t have an edge. You don’t belong with him.”

His fingers dropping down and clenching around the edge of the sink, Ed grit his teeth. “I have-” he threw a quick glance over his sure, checking if he was still alone and that there wasn’t anyone lurking in the deep, dark shadows. “I have killed a man,” he hissed out a bitter reminder, the skin of his hands suddenly growing hot as if they were still stained with the sticky red. “I have killed a man and disposed of his body in this station’s laboratory and you think I don’t have an edge?”

Clicking his tongue, Riddler raised one of his eyebrows and looked up, pretending to need a moment to remember this correctly. “Six months ago,” he said. “You killed one man, six months ago, and then you’ve suffered quite a meltdown over it.” He gave a pitiful smile. “Why can’t you just admit it, Ed, hm? That you’re too soft? Isn’t that why Kristen never wanted to give you a chance in the first place? Because you were too soft for her?” He cooed mockingly as he stepped closer, bending his knees and leaning forward as his words picked up a quicker pace, intensity and persistence growing in them. “And if you were too soft and mushy for an archivist, how long do you think your mindless obedience is going to amuse the king of the criminal underworld? You’re just like a puppy, they’re cute for a while but then people get bored of them. And that’s exactly what’s going to happen to us if you’re not going to let me do something about this.”

If only Riddler had had a tangible body, Ed would love nothing more than to show that he did have an edge by going for his second kill. “I am in control,” he uttered, loudly and clearly, trembling hand raising up to comb a loose strand of his hair back into its place. “I’m not letting you meddle and ruin this for me! And since when do you even approve of my relationship? You don’t want me to be with Oswald!” 

Crashing his fist into the sink with the force that made the pipes underneath jingle, Riddle made a sound of frustration, his eyes burning up. “Of course I don’t want you with him! But if you don’t let me take the wheel and start using this opportunity to make a name for ourselves, we’re not going to have a snowball’s chance when the chips are down and he gets bored of you! You’re going to get us killed! Just let me out! Let me out or I’ll stop asking!” 

“Shut up!” Ed exclaimed, throwing his hands up to the air and screwing his eyes shut so tightly colourful stains sprouted behind them, his heartbeat thrashing up his ribcage from the inside, his breathing shortening like he had just run a mile. He couldn’t let this happen, he couldn’t let Riddler knock him off balance and get to him to the point of losing control, he couldn’t let that ugly side of him demolish everything he had been working for for months. “Shut up! Just shut up!” He rubbed his face, sliding his fingers under his glasses and pressing at his closed eyes as he shook his head rapidly. “I’m not letting you out! You’re not meddling in this! I’m in control! I. Am. In. Control!”

One, two, three, he counted in his mind slowly, all the way to sixty, then again, and then again, giving himself whole three minutes to steady his breathing back to normal and bring himself back from the verge of letting the strands of sanity slip through his fingers. Riddler had always been manipulative, always getting in the way once things had been going relatively well, always reminding that he was the smarter, the better, the more desirable one. Now that the time had come when Ed was proving himself to be extraordinarily bright, fully capable of bettering himself, and on top of that wanted by someone, Riddler could no longer take it and he so very desperately wanted to get back into the position of power. Except that Ed was not going to let that happen, he was not going to let Riddler get out or take the steering wheel ever again. Ideally, he would shove this twisted version of himself somewhere deep down, lock him in the furthest and darkest corner of his mind and forget about him altogether, but that simply did not seem possible. But there had been once a time when he had been taking pills for his… condition, and although they had had a number of unpleasant side-effects, they had at least been doing quite a good job at keeping Riddler from lashing out or shoving himself into the lead. And as years had passed since then, there was a rather high chance that there had been research done and new, improved versions of medication introduced. With being so close to the King of Gotham on top of that, Ed should hardly have difficulties with getting his hands on something that would work, and as long as he made sure that Oswald would never, ever find out about any of this, he could use some of the contacts he had made in the past months-

Flinching, his head jumped up as he suddenly heard the door to the locker room creaking open, accompanied by a familiar voice speaking up. “Ed?” Jim Gordon called out as he stepped inside, wearing the same tortured expression as always, as if the weight of the entire city was laying upon if shoulders, or at least like he wasn’t the one who put it there in the first place. “Ah, there you are,” he said, forcing a neutral tone as he rested one of his hands on his hips, the other one gesturing behind his shoulder. “You weren’t in the lab, we couldn’t find you. There’s some delivery for you. You need to sign for it.” 

Scrunching his eyebrows, Ed straightened his back and put on a neutral face, trying to act like he hadn’t been spiralling out of control just a few seconds ago. “A delivery?” he echoed, taking a step towards the exit. “For me?” he asked as if to make sure, but he was talking to himself more than to anyone else, already leaving the room and walking out into the station’s bullpen, legs carrying him towards the front desk as he felt something in his guts clench and slide up to his throat. There were curious eyes turning after him, observing like they were starved for a break from the long hours of pretending to work, and what better entertainment they could possibly get than watching the man whose expense they had been making jokes on for years on end receiving a flower shipment? Because that was exactly what the scrawny-looking courier in a red cap and cheap jacket had been holding in one of his hands as he looked around the G.C.P.D. with a lack of interest and just a dose of disgust, a clothes protector draped over his shoulder while he swayed on the heels of his sneakers. 

He only perked up slightly as he saw Ed approaching, scrambling to get a paper pad holder from under his arm. “Mr… uh, Mr Ed Nygma?” he asked to make sure before handing it over for a signature, the smallest spark of life lightning up in his dull eyes for a fraction of a second. “Oh. E-Nygma. Like enigma. That’s funny.” 

“There’s nothing funny about my name,” Ed muttered as he quickly looked over the document in front of him, breathing a discreet sigh of relief as he saw that Oswald had not used his real name in the sender’s field, instead going for a simple yet fitting John Doe, as well as attaching one of the addresses that could not be easily traced back to him. Still, it would be a lie if Ed were to say that he was happy to receive a gift at work after he had made it very clear that he did not wish for his coworkers to find out about his relationship or to bring more attention to himself than he already was. The people around him were police officers, for god’s sake, and as dumb and unperceptive as they usually were, this sort of a happening was bound to spark questions, and that was the last thing he needed right now. “There,” he uttered as he quickly scribbled his name on the paper and almost shoved it back into the courier’s hand, grabbing the items addressed for him and fully intending on hiding with them back in the locker room again.

Not paying him more mind, the courier simply tipped the brim of his hat and turned around to leave, giving Ed second to slip into a false sense of security as his curiosity took the best of him, tempting him to open the card attached to the black protector instead of retrieving the bouquet and what seemed to be a new suit straight into his locker. Surely enough, on creamy inside there had been a message written to him in Oswald’s messy handwriting, but before Ed had the chance to as much as to skim over the text, he heard chuckling behind his back, causing the muscles on his neck to tense up instantaneously. “What’s all this?” Harvey Bullock asked, an almost unnoticeable slur to the manner in which he spoke, suggesting that despite it only being one in the afternoon he had already drunk more than a cop on the clock should. Surely enough, as Ed turned around, he was faced with none other than that lowlife of a drunken detective with a hip flask sticking out of the pocket of his pants, Gordon by his side. “Flowers?” he asked mockingly as he reached for the bouquet, turning it in his hand and sniffing as if to check whether they were real. “Fancy! Did you get yourself a secret admirer, Ed?” there was a bark of laughter at the end of his sentence, followed by a scoff or two from the other cops beginning to swarm around them like flies around rotting meat. 

Suddenly there was unadulterated rage swelling up in Ed’s stomach that did not yet have the time to cool down after they had been burned up by Riddler’s yelling, the additional ridicule now only feeding into the fire licking at his insides. He was good at keeping his emotions inside. Remarkable, even. No matter how hurt, how disappointed, how angry he would become, he had always managed to keep it all deep within, letting it gnaw at his flesh and bones rather than setting it out and spewing it around. It was one of the reasons why the people around him always thought so little of him, wasn’t it? That’s why they thought that he was all shy and harmless and small, incapable of even defending himself, much less hurting anyone else. That he didn’t have an edge. “What exactly is it that you find so funny, Detective Bullock?” he posed a question, and although the phrasing had been nothing but polite, there had been sizzling poison dripping from his words, his voice louder than usual, causing the widespread cruel delight to quiet down rapidly. His fingers shook and trembled as he ripped the bouquet from Bullock’s hand, and he knew that there were more and more people taking notice of the scene playing out, but he was not going to stand down now. He had been working on this station for almost seven years, for Christ’s sake. He was the lead of the forensics team, he solved more cases for those incompetent bastards in one week than they would in six months, he had always been friendly and polite towards everyone. He did not deserve this. And he was not going to let them keep doing this to him when he had finally learned his worth. “What do you find so amusing in someone being into me?”

Bullock’s expression changed from entertained to confused, almost bordering with shock as if Ed had just slapped him and spit in his face. He let out an incoherent sound as he turned around to the suddenly quietened police officers, like he wanted to check that he had really heard this, that Ed Nygma had really just stood up for himself, that this had really happened. “Nothing,” Gordon spoke up in his place, putting a hand on his partner’s shoulder, clearly wanting to take control of the situation. “He doesn’t find anything amusing, Ed. He’s just had a long night. Probably could show him wiggly fingers and he’d laugh.” He put on a fake smile, nodding his head as to signal that he wished for his situation to stop before it escalates. “Have, uh… have fun on your date, Ed.”

Ed looked at the two detectives for a few more seconds while he boiled up from the inside before his head cleared. “Excuse me,” he just muttered as he clutched the black protector a little tighter to his chest and passed by the stunned officers, turning back towards the locker room. It was only when he had closed the doors behind him that he had realized just how shaken up he was, letting out a long, trembling breath that had already begun aching in his lungs before he had noticed he had been holding it back. He had just closed his eyes attempting to calm down and let his head fall back against the door when he felt his phone suddenly vibrate in his pocket. Reaching for it, he forced himself to look only to then feel a smile pull at the corners of his mouth as he saw Oswald’s name displayed on the screen. Eddie, the message read. I’m sorry I’ve been quiet. I was busy. Please come for dinner in the Lounge tomorrow at six. I hope the suit fits. 

He was not alone.


	11. eleven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote another chapter quickly and what about it! I still don't have a job (please send me good vibes I DESPERATELY need a job 😭) so I just sit around the whole day doing nothing except writing this AU so,,, as I'm posting it I've already started writing the next one so! As long as uni doesn't start or I get I job I think y'all can safely expect more regular updates. With that being said,,, the story takes an interesting turn in this chapter and there's going to be a twist in two chapters,,, whoever guesses what's coming can ask me whatever questions about the AU they want on Twitter @alekstraordinar and I'll answer even if they include spoilers 👁👄👁 also! Comments please I love reading them and they're really motivating me too keep going <3

It was becoming difficult.

At a certain point of his life, Ed had had to--quite reluctantly--come to terms with the fact that there had been someone else living inside his head, and that the odds of that someone changing his attitude, attempting to cooperate, or simply doing him the favour of disappearing into thin air were small, if any at all. Every so often, during the brief periods when he was actually willing to acknowledge his situation, he would think about just how strange it had been to  _ know  _ that not a single thing about him had been truly only his, but this was simply how the things had been for him, for as long as he could remember. With the years passing one after another, the memory of being on his own had progressively paled and withered until it had completely faded away, leaving him wondering if he had truly ever been alone, or if it had always been the two of them. Given how lonely he had always been on the outside, forever misunderstood and seemingly unable to form any sort of meaningful human connections, life had presented him with an abundance of opportunities to consider that, perhaps in some twisted and grimly comical way, he should be grateful. He should be grateful that no matter where his path had taken him and no matter how low he had sunk, he had never known the true meaning of solitude. Although he had lived his life like the bitterness of loneliness had been the first thing he had ever tasted, its foul flavour clinging to his tongue to then turn sour by the years of exclusion and misunderstanding, he had never been  _ alone _ . Through multiple disappointments, and countless instances of humiliation, and over the constant fluctuation between the highs and the lows, despite whatever had happened and whoever had met and forsaken him, he had not once been left completely on his own. Against all the improbable odds and all the treacherous curveballs being thrown at him, there had always been someone  _ there _ .

However, that was not to say that he had actually  _ enjoyed _ it. Riddler’s presence had hardly been a comforting one, more often than not looming at the back of his mind like a dark, heavy cloud sizzling with electricity, waiting for the smallest opportunity or the most trivial excuse to thunder and pour down. With his lively, short-tempered reactions and a certain kind of intense liking for the drama and suspense, it was easy to assume, to believe, and then, later on, to be assured that he loved chaos, that he  _ thrived _ within it. He liked to call himself the smart one, the logical one, the cold one, yet whenever things hadn’t gone the way he had wanted them to go, he was prone to becoming hot-headed and throwing a temper tantrum like a child, raising his voice and insisting that he knew what was the best for them, for the  _ both _ of them. In that regard he wasn’t entirely wrong--in the past, there had been numerous instances and unpleasant happenings that Ed had only managed to get out of and push through because he had either listened to the advice offered or he had reluctantly allowed Riddler to briefly take over. For those times, he had been greatful, and although their relationship had not been the one of the kind where he would know how to express his appreciation, after getting him out of trouble, there would always be a span where they would speak with each other in a manner near fondness. Almost like there had still been something they could try to fix. But lately, Riddler had been becoming increasingly more unbearable to the point of causing Ed a constant headache, like there had been steady and uninterrupted banging at the inside of his skull that he could not quiet down with neither sleep nor aspirin, not even alcohol or the taste of Oswald’s lips. 

That last point was exactly the reason why the relatively peaceful and nearly symbiotic relationship they had previously had, had been progressively degrading and deteriorating and decaying more and more and more. It was almost like Riddler simply could not bear the idea of being given less attention, of being put off to the side, and of being denied following his crazy plan, all for the sake of pursuing an unlikely but flourishing relationship. And the more time had passed and the less mind Ed been paying to him, the more agitated and restless he had been becoming, popping out of the blue with his unwanted advice and unpleasant commentary, poking and prodding with his fingers at the spots he knew would hurt the most. For someone who had come to Ed’s rescue time after time, Riddler had certainly been doing everything there was in his power to make sure that Ed would not be able to enjoy his newfound happiness and all of this after  _ he _ had been the one to introduce Ed to the Iceberg Lounge to begin with. He had been contradicting himself and posing conflicting arguments, changing his stance and motivations halfway through conversations, insisting on executing some senseless strategy he didn’t even seem to entirely understand on his own, only to then vanish for hours or days. Truth be told, it was as though he had been going completely insane, and Ed simply did not have the time or the energy or, frankly, the will to put up with this while living a double life, which was difficult enough on its own. He had spent years trying to manage Riddler’s temperament, and now when he had seemingly lost all of his desire to make things between them work, it was time to reach for slightly more drastic measures. 

Despite his memories of that period appearing fuzzy and bleeding at the edges in his mind, he could still remember the time between finishing high school and starting university when he had decided to try some sort of medication, even if it was just to make the transition from one school to the other easier on his mental health. They hadn’t made Riddler go away into the void he so often disappeared into, but they  _ had _ made him easier to manage--as long as Ed had been taking them regularly, Riddler would become calmer, quieter, and he’d appear before Ed’s eyes less frequently. Of course, once the pills had started wearing out he’d lash out with anger, swearing Ed off and telling him to not take the next dose, that it wasn’t fair, that he didn’t deserve it. The effects were difficult on them both, though, the meds often intensifying Ed’s anxiety, making him more prone to panic attacks, they spoiled his mood tremendously, and at one point even made him lose weight. He gave up on them as soon as he had settled into the university’s routine and promised himself not to ever try this sort of solution ever again, but after their last fight, it seemed like he had been left with no other choice. Thankfully, due to spending this much time in the Iceberg Lounge and becoming so familiar with all of the underworld’s components, Ed knew of quite a few places where he could get a new kind of medication to force Riddler into submission. He had looked through a few medical journals, made a few calls, and asked for a few favours, and now all there had been left for him to do was to go to the rendezvous with enough money in his pocket and pick up his pills. The sheer craving of finally getting some peace had been consuming his thoughts for the past thirty hours so thoroughly that he could barely even focus on his first date night in a week. “Sorry, what?” he just asked, blinking his eyes confusedly as Oswald’s vexed face came back into focus in his field of vision.

Oswald put his slim hand down from where he was snapping his fingers right in front of Ed’s face back down onto the table, resting it on the side of his silver plate with half-eaten dinner. He was wearing a dark suit with thin grey stripes on it, his metallic tie contrasting sharply against his jet black shirt, silver cufflinks with purple gems shining at the sleeves. Two weeks earlier, he had changed up the way he did his hair slightly, making it even spikier than before and with a purple strand on the side, and Ed had to admit that he struggled to believe how he could ever zone out when he had such a beautiful sight right in front of him. “What’s going on with you?” Oswald answered with a question in a firm manner, but there was his usual dose of tenderness to it, like he really, truly cared. If only Ed had a stronger gut, perhaps he would be brave enough to ask if his feelings were reciprocated, and if he wasn’t just a plaything after all. “You haven’t been listening to me  _ at all _ the whole evening. And you’re not talking, either. Eddie, did something happen to you?”

His features growing softer, Ed reached across the table to cover Oswald’s hand with his own, starved for touch. If only he hadn’t had set his meeting for later tonight, there would not be anything else in the whole wide world that he would rather do than stay with Oswald for the night, have his pale fingers brush through his hair, hands settle on his cheeks, lips kiss a path down the length of his spine. “I- I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been paying attention. Sorry. I just…” he cut himself off with an inhale, giving himself a few more seconds to gather up his thoughts. He hated lying, and he absolutely despised the idea of lying to Oswald, of all people, but would omitting the truth be the same as telling an untruth? At this point, he was completely clueless as to how he could possibly bring up the fact that there was another person in his head, with a will, consciousness, and thoughts of his own. “I’m thinking about what happened when you sent this suit to the station. Oswald, you shouldn’t have-” 

“I know, baby, I know,” Oswald told him as he reached for one of the wine glasses with his free hand, more to occupy it with something rather than out of the actual need to drink. Although this was only a distraction tactic to take Oswald’s attention off of attempting to investigate what had been on Ed’s mind more closely, there  _ was _ a genuine concern in what Ed had said. He had  _ not _ enjoyed being stuck in the middle of a circle of curious cops with a huge bouquet of expensive flowers and a suit protector. No matter how good it felt to tell Bullock off, this had been the first time over the course of their relationship when Oswald had breached one of the rules they had originally agreed upon and, well… it was mildly concerning, to say the least. “I just couldn’t help myself. You know that you look absolutely...  _ irresistible _ ,” he continued, emphasizing the last word like a purr with a vibration to it, the curl of his upper lip immediately sending hot sparks to the pit of Ed’s belly. “I didn’t like the idea of your coworkers fooling themselves into thinking that you could possibly still be single.”

Needless to say, that alone made heat burn up in Ed’s cheeks, turning his ears bright red and making air catch up in his throat just a little bit. Hearing praise had always felt to him like getting high off of some powerful and incredibly addictive narcotics, the blood in his veins changing into liquid fire, heart beating out an excited, accelerated pace. But there was something about the way Oswald did it, something that never failed to make Ed verge on losing his mind--perhaps it was the little flame sparking up behind his green-blue eyes, or maybe the way his voice dropped just a bit, or even the self-satisfied smirk always lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Oswald,” Ed breathed out helplessly as he put down his cutlery and moved across the booth to slide right next to Oswald, raising a hand up to his cheek and leaning in for a kiss. God, he loved this. He loved being able to just reach out and get a taste of Oswald’s plush lips whenever he wanted, and for the kiss to always be returned, always welcome, always  _ wanted _ . “You don’t have to be jealous,” he promised, their faces still so closely together that their noses were pressing against each other, breaths mingling. “I don’t- I mean, I would  _ never _ -”

Shushing, Oswald took Ed’s chin between his thumb and curled index finger, kissing him again. “Eddie, I know,” he repeated himself, but there was a single heavy, almost threatening note to his voice, nearly like he was allowing himself a split of a second to doubt Ed’s loyalty and using it to send a warning. “And I know you would never lie to me, either. But you know-” he breathed out an amused sound, “-that I  _ own _ half of this city and I  _ really _ don’t like it when people get into my territory and they think there wouldn’t be repercussions.” He made a face, leaning his head back and squinching his eyes slightly. “I know those cops are bothering you. Especially Bullock. God knows he’s getting on  _ my _ nerves, so if you just-”

Ed twitched. “Oswald, no-” he raised both of his hands defensively, only to then slid his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and fidget with his ring by turning it around on his finger. “I don’t- I don’t want you to do anything to him. Even after yesterday, he’s not-”

“After yesterday?” Oswald repeated after him, perking up immediately, altered. His eyes became cloudy in a blink of an eye, tenseness appearing in his sharp jaw as he straightened his back, chin up. 

With a long exhale, Ed shook his head, a nervousness growing at the back of his neck as he tried to collect his thoughts and choose his next words carefully, knowing just how easy it was for Oswald to lose his temper and how difficult it was later to get him to calm down. He should be happy, in a way, because this reaction had just shown him that Oswald  _ did _ care about him, and likely in a greater capacity than he would ever like to let anyone believe,  _ especially _ Ed himself. “It was nothing. Oswald, it was nothing.” Ed reached to squeeze Oswald’s hands reassuringly, feeling it tremble slightly under his fingertips. “He was just making fun of me a bit, it was nothing serious. And I talked him down, too, so I doubt he’s going to bother me again in the nearest future. Besides, if you wanted to get rid of him now, after he’s just mocked me in front of half the station someone could- oh, dear,” he cut himself off as his eyes fell upon his new watch--yet another one of the gifts sent to his apartment--its hands closing to half past eight already. He had less than an hour to get across the city and find the right place to exchange the crumpled bills from the inside of his suit’s pocket for a few bottles of pills that would hopefully put his relationship back on its best track. It was time for him to go. It was time for him to go and he had to  _ lie _ . “Oswald, I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

His eyebrows rising so high it made his forehead wrinkle, Oswald made a disbelieving face, bordering with offence, and then shadowed with something much grimmer, something much more dangerous. “Excuse me?” he asked slowly, accentuating each and every single one of the eight letters, somehow managing to clearly pronounce the question mark at the very end as well. “I  _ told _ you we were having a date tonight,” he reminded, tapping the tip of his finger against the table. “You always stay the night. I- I have something for you up in the penthouse- Where do you even have to _ go _ ?”

It felt like there were cold nails being hammered through his heart on top of a block of ice plummeting into his stomach at just how  _ upset _ Oswald sounded, but the seconds were ticking and Ed couldn’t afford to wait another day, not knowing that Riddler is putting his relationship and his entire life at stake. “I’m really sorry,” Ed just said as he leaned in for a quick kiss before getting up from where he was sitting, buttoning his suit jacket. “I completely forgot that I promised Kristen to go out with her tonight to catch up, I- I think that Lee is supposed to come too, and it would be rude of me to just not show up. I want them to like me, they’re my only friends at the station-” he stopped, turning back to look at Oswald, swallowing. He very much did not like the expression on his face, not with how stoic it seemed, not when he did not know what was brewing underneath the surface and not being able to decipher it. For a second, he hesitated, no longer sure whether his touch would be welcome anymore, but he did risk brushing his fingers over the exposed skin of Oswald’s neck. “I’ll make it up to you,  _ daddy _ ,” he promised with one more kiss, his lips lingering. 

There was still something lurking in the green-blue of his eyes when they pulled back, but still, Oswald stroked his cheek and gave him a dimpled smile. “I’m sure you will,” he purred, no matter how forced it sounded. “Drive safe, baby.”

Knowing that if he were to stay there for another second the stitches on his chest would give out and his guts would spill all over the floor, Ed just turned around and marched out of the Iceberg Lounge, focusing completely on trying to get himself downstairs as quickly as possible and  _ not _ looking back as though his life depended on it. And, in a way, it did. He had just begun to think that Oswald genuinely did care about him, but there was still a part of him that was not certain whether he would be able to manage a temper tanturm and explain himself in time if Oswald were to think that Ed wasn’t being honest with him. Which he wasn’t, but he was so desperately trying to tell himself that it was for the better, that he was doing it for the sake of them both, that they were already too far down this road to now bring up something as sensitive as having an alter ego trying to ruin his life. There had already been a panic attack creeping and crawling up his throat when he had nervously mashed his fingers repetadely against the elevator’s buttons, the humming of his blood tuning out the familiar tune seeping from the speakers above his head. He was so occupied with reminding himself to breathe that it wasn’t until after he had already gotten into his car, turning the engine on shakily while his keys jingled, and driven three blocks away from where the club had been situated that he had realized he wasn’t alone. Riddler was sitting right there on the passenger’s seat, his arms crossed over his chest and a gloomy look on his face when he asked, his voice uncharacteristically sorrowful: “What exactly do you think you’re doing, Ed?”

Hearing someone speak up next to him out of the blue made Ed jump in his seat, nearly steering the car off the road and into one of the spray-painted street lamps, his heart clenching violently to the point of aching. “Don’t-!” he exclaimed, agitated and balancing on the very thin line of snapping--something he assumed Riddler would very much like to happen. “Don’t just- don’t just pop out when I’m driving!” he hissed, trying to keep his eyes on the road but they kept flickering to the side, something ominous about his other self’s presence, something off, something  _ foreign _ . “I don’t know if you remember, but you’re living inside my body, if I crash,  _ you _ crash too.”

Riddler didn’t respond right away, but there was a wet click when he turned his jaw, gritting his teeth. “This is a bad idea,” he said, and of course he said that, because he knew that his days of nearly completely free reign were about to swiftly end. “You remember how those drugs made you feel uni, you were  _ miserable _ . You were  _ sick _ .” He crossed his legs in the cramped space of the car as if to seem nonchalant, but his shoulders were squared and his eyes were firm. “Do you even know what you’re going to put in  _ our _ body? You took one evening to do your research and you found possibly the shadiest vendor in all of Gotham. Besides, you know as well as I do that Penguin controls ninety percent of drug activity in this city, he’s going to  _ find out _ and he’s not going to be happy about this!”

“My body!” Ed corrected him, intensifying headache pushing flaming needles through his temples and digging them deep into his brain. He clenched and unclenched his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to ground himself, trying to focus while the very edges of his visions blurred. “My body! This is  _ my _ body, it has always been, and it will always be. Mine, not yours! What has four eyes but can’t see? Mississippi. Ugh! Stop doing this!”

With a disdaining expression on his smug face, Riddler shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly, but it was so painfully obvious that it was nothing more than just a pose and that one inside he was just as restless, just as bothered, just as  _ scared _ . “I’m not even doing anything. You tell riddles when you’re stressed, you always had. Don’t try blaming every one of your quirks on me now.” He scoffed, sitting up straight, resting his hands on the board ahead of him, looking at him intently while Ed pulled his car over to the side of a shifty street, parking it up on the curb and reaching to the inside of one of his pocket to count through the bills and make absolute sure that he had taken enough money with him. He couldn’t afford letting the dealer wait, not when he so desperately wanted the pills. “Don’t do this, Ed,” Riddler warned him. “This is a bad idea and you  _ know _ it is. Silencing me is not going to help you with the doubts you’re having about Oswald!”

Feeling like he had just been slapped, Ed looked at Riddler for a long stretch, feeling anger burning up under his skin and spreading through his fibers like a wildfire eating through droughted forest. It was such an incredibly low blow, stabbing at the sensitive places all over again, and the part of it that hurt the most was the fact that he was  _ right _ . Ed  _ had _ been having doubts about his relationship with Oswald lately, mostly while trying to formulate an idea he had had for the future or what he had expected from it, for the first time in a long time having a real motivation to consider what would the next week, month, year bring. But whatever events there would be playing in front of him, one thing he knew for certain was that he could not let Riddler make it even more difficult for him that it already was, and if he didn’t want to let it go upon request, Ed was more than allowed to resolve to other measures. “Go away,” he just said bitterly as he opened the door of his car and stepped out into the sticky evening air, the heat of summer making garbage on the sidewalks rot and fill the entire block with a foul stench. Although there was hardly a neighbourhood in Gotham one could consider to be a “good” or a “safe” one, there was not a doubt that Ed had found himself in a district hardly any better than the Narrows and likely just as dangerous if he hadn’t watched his step. He already felt uncomfortable being there in his expensive clothes and fancy shoes, with a shining watch on his wrist and a bejewelled ring on his finger. Looking around cautiously to make sure there was nobody approaching, he took his accessories off, stuffing them into his suit jacket to then throw it back into the car, going even as far as to ruffle his hair a bit to look more rugged, more like he had reasons to be in this place. 

He put his hands into the pockets of his pants as he moved across the street to then follow it down to the address he had been given the night prior, his entire body tensed. “Is  _ that _ supposed to be your cover?” Riddler mocked him as he walked right next to him. “You know that those shoes are worth more than the people living here have to make the ends meet over two months, right? And you have more in your pocket than they will see at once in their  _ lifetime _ . You’re going to get us shot.”

Ed gave out a frustrated groan as he pressed at his temple, looking up at the numbers on the buildings to find the right one. Eighteen, twenty, twenty-two… ah, yes, twenty-four. “Go away,” he just repeated himself as he pushed the creaking, dirty door open and stepped into a staircase that somehow reeked even worse than the outside. “You’re not going to stop me. Not this time.” He knew he couldn’t physically run away from Riddler, but it still didn’t stop him from jumping up the stairs and climbing them up quickly, barely able to withstand the constant nagging and whispering in his head. He was  _ exhausted _ and the more he was fighting him, the more Riddler seemed to put up a fight. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve- apartment number thirteen. His heart was beating in such a violent, stuttering rhythm it felt like it was about to give out when he knocked. “I’m here for Elijah!” he called out, hoping for a swift response. 

“Don’t. Do. This,” Riddler warned him, standing behind him, leaning in uncomfortably close and breathing down his neck with eyes burning up almost feverishly in the dimmed, yellow lights of the hallway. “You know it won’t work. You know it  _ can’t _ work. You’re just going to make yourself sick. You’re going to make yourself sick and Oswald is going to  _ notice _ . Just tell him about me and don’t  _ poison _ us!” 

But Ed tried not to listen, instead just stepping back as the door to the shabby apartment clicked and creaked open, a tired man with a mop of light brown hair peeking out with a cocked eyebrow. He threw a careful look to the left and to the right before extending out his hand, waiting for Ed to put the money in it. “This better be everything, these ain’t easy to find” he grunted as a stack of green bills found its way in between his fingers, rustling in the dead quiet of the building. Glancing up at Ed every two seconds, clearly alerted, he counted through the papers, all of them crumpled hundreds and fifties, summing up to a grand total of a thousand dollars. It was not all that difficult for Ed to collect, seeing how he was able to save up big parts of his paycheck ever since Oswald had begun spoiling him with all sorts of gifts, including food and regularly inviting him out to stay over for the night which eventually lowered the flat’s bills. Once satisfied, Elijah reached into the pocket of his bomber jacket and handed Ed a plastic bag filled with orange bottles, already grabbing the edge of the door to close it shut. “No returns,” he just threw before disappearing behind the scratched wood.

There they were, Ed thought as he looked immediately pushed his hand into the pouch, his fingers twitching nervously as he fished out one of the bottles and looked at the label on it, thumb stroking over the letters and the dosage. The caps were still sealed, and although he knew that he should at least take these back home and run an analysis on them to make sure that he hadn’t been scammed, he could no longer wait. “You can’t get rid of me!” Riddler called out in desperation, furious as Ed shook two pills out into his hand and popped them into his mouth, swallowing them dry. Maybe Riddler was right. Maybe he  _ did _ have doubts. But now he was still able to fix it. “You can’t get rid of me, Ed! I have as much of a right to be here as you! I’m a  _ person  _ too!”

He needed a break.


	12. twelve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii everyone I know that this chapter might feel kind of filler-y but I promise you that it's a build-up and that there is Quite an interesting thing to look forward to in the next chapter,,, a plot twist so to say,,, this is also the last time for you to tell me what you anticipate is going to be revealed in the next chapter 👁👄👁 anyway I hope you enjoy this instalment and as always I'd love to hear your opinions in the comments!!!

It was escalating.

Although Ed would never say it out loud even in an empty room, never put it down on paper in one of his journals, and never as much as  _ think _ it to himself in the irrational fear of someone finding out about it somehow, whether on accident or not, it seemed that Riddler was  _ right _ . It wouldn’t be the first time that he had been correct in his predictions and insistent warnings, not the second nor third, not even the tenth time when the events had unfolded themselves in a way that would allow him to gloat, cross his arms over his chest with a pitiful expression on his chiselled face and an I-told-you-so painted all over his stance. Since the very moment he had come into being all those years ago, he had called himself the smart and the logical one and it was so very clear that he wanted to present himself as cold and reserved, but in reality whatever emotion Ed had felt, Riddler acted as though he had experienced it tenfold. Yet despite that, he had also somehow held that infuriating ability to read the situation from more than one angle, always know what to say, always know what to do, always know how to act. Perhaps it was caused by the fact that he simply hadn’t had his own life and only every so often glanced into Ed’s one, seeing it more like a game to enjoy and then abandon when he got bored of it, not like something that could have actual consequences or impact reality. He treated the world like a play, like a boardgame, like a competition where it was just him against everyone else and he could only win if he had caused as much chaos and mayhem around as it was possible, hungry for attention, for acknowledgement, and for being known. And the worst part of it was that, as the record had shown, if he were actually let to play, he would undoubtedly win.

Psychotropic drugs were a dangerous game to play even when prescribed and then constantly monitored and supervised by psychiatrists with years of experience behind them, awards and proof of finished training hanging on the walls in their fancy offices, completing the image with leather armchairs and suffocating incenses. Brain’s biochemistry was not something one should just tinker with without oversight or extensive knowledge gathered throughout many years, especially not seeing how even the slightest imbalance or the smallest dosage of the wrong medication could have catastrophic consequences. It didn’t even take the rest of the night for Ed to realize that he should have had listened to Riddler, and at the very least wait until the next day so he could look at the white pills in orange bottles more closely in the G.C.P.D.’s station, run an analysis on them, and then make a more thorough research before deciding whether he should take them. The last thing he had wanted was to put himself in a similar state as he had been shortly before starting university, with his anxiety higher than ever before, his mind constantly blaring alarms in its flight-or-fight mode, his sleeping pattern almost completely disrupted by nightmares. And it seemed that there he was again, almost all of the symptoms returning on top of a stress-induced pain splitting his head in half and a nervous lump in his throat that had clogged itself there as he had left the Iceberg Lounge and refused to disappear. So far, the pills hadn’t even made the constant, white noise at the back of his head Riddler had always caused go away, even if Riddler himself hadn’t said a word in over twelve hours, which Ed contributed more to him being angry than the medication working. It had been half a day. He had to give it time and push through the sickness for the promise of a greater award waiting for him ahead.

Like this hadn’t been enough for him already, the manner in which he had left the Iceberg Lounge the night prior had also been heavying in his shoulders like an unbearable weight, guilt and regret mixing together in his stomach into bitter bile, rising up to his throat, and making him nauseous. Oswald might have had smiled and given him a kiss, but there was none of his usual warmth in those actions, his eyes remaining cold and cautious, perhaps even hurt, almost betrayed. The very last thing Ed needed to happen was for Oswald to possibly think that Ed had been lying to him or doing something behind his back which, well, he  _ had _ but all of it had been done in their best interest, to preserve what they had. He did not want Oswald to be angry with him, and not just for the very tangible possibility that it would be a death sentence, but mostly because Ed loved him so much it  _ hurt _ , and if the things were to go South and he wouldn’t be executed, he would most certainly die from a broken heart. But he didn’t want to draw out the darkest scenarios and building assumptions off of something that might have had just as well been the lights and shadows playing on Oswald’s face, not when there was a constant buzzing in his ears and a certain tenseness in his forehead, like Riddler was about to appear and scold him yet again. Except that he didn’t, and he hadn’t spoken up ever since Ed had taken the first two pills in that seedy apartment in East End, but Ed could  _ feel _ him lurking in there, waiting for another moment of great distress to jump out and take another jab at him, humiliate him even further. He should run an analysis on those pills, and he definitely should come up with a way to make it up to Oswald for leaving on him so early on their date--give him a present, give him a kiss on the jaw he so liked, stay for the night and not leave until the following noon. If only his head could stop aching for just  _ one second _ .

His mind had been fizzing and sizzling the whole night without missing a single second and the hubbub of his thoughts had not quietened down even a bit since he had barely managed through his morning routine and gotten himself to work on time by something close to a miracle. After he had clocked in, it had only taken him a single look at the case files already waiting for him on his desk to decide that he needed a break already to brew himself another cup of strong, black coffee and to step outside for a cigarette, foolishly hoping that the combination of the two would give him the energy to get through the day as as as calm some of his nerves. Needless to say, this strategy had proven itself to be ineffective and by the time noon had rolled around, Ed’s headache had only intensified, accompanied by heightened anxiety, a racing heartbeat, and a nicotine craving sucking at his stomach. It was safe to say that he felt absolutely miserable and the guilt he was still feeling over how he had left Oswald the night before wasn’t making things any better, the simple regret of missing out on soft lips pressed to the skin of his neck and hands running down his sides taking a toll on him far greater than the possible consequences of facing Oswald’s wrath. But he couldn’t let his mind expect the worst from what was going to come--after all, he had a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of his actions, everything he had done was to make sure that he and Oswald would be able to thrive in their relationship without disruptions. The thought that it was all for the best and the sheer desperation to finally get rid of the never-ending whirring at the back of his head were the only things that made him motivated enough to scoop one of the orange bottles out of his pocket as he sat at one of the tables in the Forensic’s Lab, unable to focus on the task at hand.

By that time, it was already well past noon and the blind pounding behind Ed’s eyes had significantly lessened, turning into a dull but mild ache settled at the base of his neck, almost unnoticeable after a while. With all of his medical knowledge and experience with drugs, he suspected that he had simply taken too much on his first try, giving his body a kind of a shock it desperately tried to protect itself against which, granted, was an unwise move on his part. If he only took one of the pills now, it should be about enough, and if it would still make him sick, in another eighteen hours he would take a half, and eventually, he would arrive at the correct dosage while also making sure that it works. He wanted to be free, to have the inside of his head just to himself without a malicious entity sharing this space with him so very badly he felt a distraught scream perched right under his chin as he spotted the familiar figure sitting next to him on the other chair. “Hm, let’s see,” Riddler said nonchalantly as he leaned out, arms crossed over his chest and head cocking to the side as he looked closely at the bottle in Ed’s hand. “Anxiety, insomnia, increased heartbeat, sweating, nausea, impairment of motor functions. Seems like you’ve given yourself an overdose of this shady and illegal drug that you bought and then took without a second thought.  _ Shocking _ . You look like you’re having a really bad hangover, what exactly makes you think that Oswald won’t notice it?”

With a tormented groan escaping his throat, Ed took his glasses off and rubbed his face tiredly, pinching at the bridge of his is nose in hopes of relieving some of the pressure from between his temples. “Why,” he asked, exhausted, “can’t you just  _ go away _ ? Can’t you see that I don’t want you here?  _ Nobody _ does. I’m the only one person who even knows you exist and I want you  _ gone _ .”

Surprisingly, Riddler didn’t reply right away, a small gasp escaping his lungs as he raised his eyebrows, the muscles on his sharp jaw tensing visibly. “Why can’t  _ you _ understand that I’m a person, too? Huh?” he countered the question with another question, some strange bitterness to the way he pronounced those words, the edges of the letters just a little too jagged, just a little too pointed. “I’m not just a figment of your imagination, I’m my own being. I have my own plans and my own goals! Maybe if you weren’t so selfish and just accepted that, you wouldn’t have drugged yourself into an overdose!”

“Shut up!” Ed exclaimed as he threw the documents he had been attempting to look through for the past hour down onto the floor in an act of pure annoyance, his guts twisting at the idea, something in his brain settling not quite right and the request to look at the things from that perspective. Riddler just wanted to play mind games with him again, get him worked up and unstable enough to the point where it would be easy for him to just shove himself to the front and take over. But he wasn’t going to let him--Ed wasn’t a child anymore, after all, he did not need protecting, he did not need someone to look over his shoulder in order to stop him from saying the wrong thing and bringing a beating onto himself. He could make it on his own, he  _ wanted _ to make it on his own if only he could be  _ left _ on his own. “The only way you could follow through with  _ any  _ of your plans would be to use  _ my _ life and  _ my  _ face and I’m  _ not _ letting you just… ruin everything I’ve been working on for years just to satisfy whatever sick ideas you have! You’re not real!” He dug his fingers into his hair as he hung his head low and pressed it in between his forearms, rocking slightly back and forth in distress. “You’re  _ not _ real, just… just go away!” 

He stayed there, curled in on himself listening to the sound of the stuffy air entering and then leaving his lungs in shakingly slow sequences, no longer feeling eyes on himself but still hearing the white noise hiding in there, somewhere, lurking. After having had spent hours on calming himself down from the narcotic rush, all of his agitation and uneasiness hit him back all at once, nearly making him sob in frustration, wishing for this nightmare to finally end, to finally stop finding ways to survive in Riddler’s spite and start living to the fullest instead. Oh, where they had gone wrong? There had been periods in the past when their coexistence had been peaceful, almost kind, almost fond, almost  _ good _ , and although to an extent Ed knew he should long for those times and wish for them to come back, at that moment of his life he simply wanted for this to end, he wanted to be just himself,  _ just _ Ed Nygma. He could almost feel tears prickling hot needles into his sockets when there was suddenly a knock at the door to the Lab followed by the creak of the hinges and clicking of heels on the cold floor. “Ed, I brought you- are you okay?” 

Immediately, Ed sat back up straight, wiping a hand over his face before reaching for his glasses and putting them back onto his nose, brushing a hand over his hair to get them back in shape. “Kristen,” he said as he forced a smile, a pulsating twinge of pain jabbing him in the chest with each beat of his heart. “I’m fine,” he lied, “everything is fine. I just- I didn’t sleep well last night. Got a bit of a headache, that’s all.”

“Coffee, maybe?” Kristen suggested as she walked into the Lab, only to the stop halfway through as her eyes fell upon a mass of papers scattered down around the floor, but she decided not to comment on it. They all had had days like that. Instead, she simply stepped closer and put a new pile of files on the table in front of Ed, resting her hip against the edge of it. “It usually helps me with mine, and god knows I need it sometimes after I’ve had wine.” She chuckled at her own joke and then crossed her arms over on her chest, her shoulders slumping a little bit. “You should probably wait with it a bit, though. Penguin came to the station and, uh- he does  _ not _ look happy.” She shivered slightly, rubbing at her arms. “He scares me. I mean, rightfully so, he probably killed more people than he could care to count and he pretty much owns this entire city. Makes me uneasy to think he’s just sitting out there with his goons.”

Ed stared up at her for a few seconds, feeling the increasing tension in his body make the hairs at his hands and neck bristle, his uneasy heart gagging on its own beat, his muscles tensing and freezing at the point of hurting. “I-” he managed to press out as a hundred different scenarios ran through his head, each one of them more catastrophic than the previous, the sudden pressure in his stomach making his vision tremble. “I’m sorry, Kristen, I just- I just remembered I’m late with turning a report to Alvarez and I don’t want him to get snappy on me,” he said a half-truth as he ducked down to the ground to quickly gather the papers he had previously shoved there, trying to stack them back up in at least a somewhat coherent order, his fingers shaking so greatly it made the task unnecessarily difficult. “And I will get that coffee. I can bring you one, too, if you wait here.” He gave her another pretended smile and, not awaiting the answer, he headed for the exit, each step taken in the direction of the station’s bullpen making his knees weaker and weaker. Oswald was here? Oswald was  _ here _ .  _ Why _ was he here? There was no reason for him to show up to the G.C.P.D., and Ed was entirely certain of that because he would know if there was a matter on the station to be settled, which could only mean that either something unexpected had happened, or Oswald had come here because of Ed and, frankly, he wasn’t sure which one of those perspectives was more frightening.

Leaving the corridor, Ed crossed the balcony and looked down the railing, taking in a sharp inhale as he saw Oswald sitting in a chair next to Gordon’s desk, leaning comfortably against the backrest of it, both of his hands on top of the cane propped between his legs. Kristen was right in her saying that Penguin didn’t look happy, because, despite the seeming nonchalance, there was visible tenseness in his shoulders and sharpness in his eyes as he looked around the station with a menacing smirk on his lips, like he owned this place. Because he did. Surely enough, there was also Zsasz standing next to him, swaying on his feet from side to side with his thumbs hooked behind the belts of his holsters like none of the armed cops around him posed him any threat, Wendell by his side looking a bit more excited, the perspective of having a shootout if the things were to go South thrilling him. If  _ both _ of the assassins were there, it could only mean that Oswald  _ wanted _ the situation to turn sour or he just wanted to show off just how tightly his hands were clenched around the city’s throat and, sensing the overall unease and tenseness around the station, he had succeeded. Every single person in the main hall of the G.C.P.D. was looking up from their tasks and duties, even the suspects locked in holding cells stepping up to the bars to have a better look at the king of Gotham himself coming to bother one of the detectives. Ed didn’t know what to think of it, and although he could come up with multiple reasons for Oswald to be there and act the way he was, each one of them appeared bleak in the perspective of a much likely option--that Oswald was there because of him. 

Failing to swallow through his clenched throat and with his eyes still firmly fixated on the unexpected guests, Ed slowly took the stairs down, purposefully choosing the ones of the pair that would lead him closer to Oswald, nearly forcing him to spare a glance. And it worked--as soon as he was halfway down, Oswald’s eyes turned from the visibly embittered Gordon with the work phone pressed firmly against his ear, up to Ed, twitching in his seat ever so slightly. Not breaking the eye contact, he then nodded his head at Zsasz, giving him a clearly previously agreed upon signal because he immediately perked up, grinning as he moved from where he was standing and towards Ed. He passed by him without a word, only throwing him an amused look over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs, spring to the way he moved, almost overjoyed. “Yes, Your Honour,” Gordon spoke to the receiver, his back unnaturally straight. “I understand, Your Honour. But if you knew about this, then you should have issued him a warrant so I- No, Your Honour, I am not telling you how to do your job, I just-”

“Oh, this is  _ delightful _ ,” Oswald could be heard sighing, tapping the tip of his cane down against the floor. “I told you, Jim, I do what I want. And,” he cut off, his hand rapidly reaching out to stop Ed in his tracks, sparkling blue-green eyes looking up at him with firmness, “I think I’m going to have a coffee. Seems like without  _ someone’s  _ cooperation this might be more difficult than I’d like. Black, three sugars.”

His tongue forgetting to work for a moment, pressing the documents a bit more tightly to his chest as he stared down at him, the golden ring on one of his fingers abruptly burned up, becoming so hot it felt as though it was going to blaze through skin and flesh down to the bone. “I-” he stuttered, too caught off guard to even think about the dozens of eyes yet again plastered to him, watching, judging, wondering. “I don’t- I mean, I’m not- I’m-” he pointed to his identification card pinned to the breast pocket of his suit, the very suit Oswald had gotten for him on the night they had had their first kiss. “I’m Forensics, I don’t make-” 

With a loud groan and the creaking of his old chair, Bullock raised his hands with irritation from where he was sitting by his own desk, an opened hip flask standing right in front of him without any shame, not even trying to pretend that Oswald’s presence wasn’t driving him insane. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ed!” he exclaimed like he was on the absolute line already, and that he was  _ waiting _ for someone to push him over it. “Don’t be an  _ idiot _ , just go make the fucking coffee!” 

The tone almost made Ed flinch, the nearly forgotten anger resurfacing and buzzing impatiently right under his skin, waiting to melt through it and spill out but now was not the time to make a scene, not when he had once again found himself in the centre of everyone’s attention. He just grit his teeth tightly and nodded his head stiffly, tugging gently at his own arm to loosen Oswald’s grip where his fingers were still clenched around the fabric of his sleeve, and then leaning over the elevated platform to drop the thick folder down onto Alvarez’s desk. Eyes drilled holes into the back of his neck when he turned his steps towards the back of the station where the kitchen had been tucked away far enough from the bullpen that grabbing something hot to drink would count as committing to taking a break. His hands were still unsteady when he poured more water into the cheap, ugly coffee maker standing on one of the counters, flipping the switch to brew a fresh pot and reaching up to the container with sugar. He knew damn well that Oswald  _ hated _ coffee and only ever resorted to drinking it if he had had an especially awful, sleepless night, and keeping this fact in mind it could only mean that Ed wasn’t  _ supposed _ to be in the main hall of the station, possibly he wasn’t even supposed to know about the unplanned visit. But even assuming that Oswald wasn’t angry at Ed for some reason, his presence there still raised more questions than there were answers to be found.  _ Why _ was he there?  _ Why _ did he look so on edge?  _ Why _ did he have Zsasz wander off into the labs? Unless-

Kristen.

Oh. Oh  _ no _ . He didn’t want to believe this, he didn’t want to believe this so very badly but this explanation was making a completely  _ perfect _ sense. Ever since he had first mentioned Kristen--that he had once been in love with her, but now they had become friends--Oswald seemed uneasy, somewhat uncomfortable whenever her name resurfaced during then conversations, and then last night Ed had left their date early for the sake of going to  _ see _ her. A situation such as this would make anyone at least a little bit suspicious, let alone a man with trust issues after a lifetime of having knives plunged into his back by the people he had once so deeply cared about, cutting through the skin and digging into flesh to graze the bones. This was not a carefully kept secret or confidential information either, as every single time one of Penguin’s alliances fell apart, the journalists would throw themselves at every shred of information like starved dogs at a piece of fresh stake, exposing tender parts that should never see the light of day. Even with him being a criminal mastermind who would not hesitate with taking the life of someone who had disrespected him, every newspaper in a ten million city covering the circumstances surrounding his mother’s death in great detail had been just  _ cruel _ . No wonder that now, when he had made himself vulnerable to another person, the thought of them possibly not being loyal to him was eating him alive, pushing him as far as to threaten to break the rules they had originally set between themselves. Oswald was jealous. Oswald was jealous  _ and _ he likely thought that Ed had been cheating on him. Ed’s heart was thumping in his chest so heavily it seemed to be shaking up his entire frame, cold sweat rising up on his forehead, his lungs shrivelled and no longer able to accept oxygen. No. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. After going to such lengths to make sure that this could continue on, it couldn’t possibly end with-

He let out a startled yelp as his phone suddenly rang, buzzing up in his pocket and violently pulling him back into reality. Nearly dropping it in the haste to pick up, Ed didn’t even see the name displayed on the screen, knowing that there could only be one person calling on this number. “It’s- it’s- it’s really not what you think-” he gasped as soon as he managed to tap the green accept button, stumbling over his own tongue and only at the end of them realizing what a terrible choice of words he had just made. He turned around to press his back again the door of the nearby fridge, having the entire kitchen in his field of view, making sure that he was the only one in there. The last thing he needed was to see him at the verge of a meltdown. “Please, it’s not- she’s my friend. She’s  _ just _ my friend.”

“I know, Eddie,” he heard Oswald’s voice on the other side, the hum in the middle of his short sentence indicating that he had already left the station and gotten into his car, ready to return to the Lounge “But I’m sure you understand why I’d be concerned given your… history with her. Why I wanted to  _ check.  _ I had Victor talk to her,” he said, the nonchalance of his tone freezing Ed from the inside, making him feel like he had just been punched. “She’s fine, of course. Probably a little shaken, you know Victor. But he didn’t do anything to her, obviously. I wouldn’t let him, knowing that she’s your friend. You know that I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, baby. Not when you’re so  _ good  _ to me.”

Shaking his head rapidly, Ed quickly blurted out: “Yes. I mean, no- I mean- yes, yes, I know you wouldn’t. And I’m so, so sorry that I upset you,” he continued, and he meant it, a great weight finally leaving his chest and letting him breathe again. “I don’t want you to think that I would do something like  _ that _ . I would  _ never _ do  _ anything _ of the kind, you know that I lo-” 

Oswald interrupted him there, like he knew what words he had just stopped just as they were about to pass Ed’s lips, like he feared hearing them, like once said they could never be taken back and he was simply not ready for it. “I know,” he just uttered instead, clearing his throat. “There’s an  _ event _ organized at the end of this week. Saturday evening, to be precise. It’s a very exclusive social gathering of, hm, the elite of the city. There won’t be any reporters or cameras, there won’t be anyone who doesn’t know better than to keep their mouth shut, so I want you to come with me. I’ll send you the address. And, Eddie? Put on that green suit I really like.”

He could not predict it.


	13. thirteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! We have arrived to the grand Plot Twist at the long last 👁👄👁 I honestly don't have much to say on the matter other than that I hope you'll enjoy! I'm really excited to hear your thoughts about this one 👀👉🏻👈🏻 enjoy!

He was on edge.

Fundamentally, Ed knew that he should not have had agreed to this, though at the same time he was all too aware that this was not one of the situations where he had the option to say no--not if he didn’t want to put himself in a position much worse than he already was in, at least. Having to pick between telling Oswald about Riddler and playing along to the game he had so clearly set up to test Ed’s loyalty, the choice was obvious, however, that did not automatically mean that Ed was  _ happy _ about the turn of events. If anything, the situation he had found himself in only prompted him to swear himself off more, to reach back in his memory to trace his steps back and try to pinpoint the exact moment when he had made a mistake, when he had slipped up, when he had done something that would make him land  _ here _ . Certainly using Kristen as an excuse to leave their date had been far from what one could call a smart move, especially when knowing that Oswald was prone to jealousy and almost obsessive in his need to control things. Those characteristics were, of course, more than understandable given his background and the steep, hazardous wall of the underworld he had had to climb in order to reach the very top, leaving the path behind blotched and stained with his own blood, sweat, and bitter tears. Still, Ed should have had kept that in mind and strayed away from admitting that he had been once unluckily in love with Kristen, or even mentioning her at all, to begin with. These had been errors on his part, too distracted by the sweet siren song of quickly falling in love with the king of Gotham to watch his step on the slippery, treacherous stones of the criminal world under his unsteady feet. And the worst of it all was that, somewhere deep down, he knew that the worst mistake had made was not mentioning Riddler at the very beginning and pretending that he didn’t even exist at all.

But it was far too late for this sort of confession now. He was already way too far down this road to come clean and reveal that the inside of his head was not just his to occupy, that there was someone else in there with him, that sometimes he came out, that he had been in there for as long as Ed could remember. And that he would likely never leave, and that he had tired, but no matter his best attempts there simply seemed to be no way for him to be left alone, the steady, low buzz and the back of his head becoming increasingly more unbearable, like a mosquito flying around his ear when he so desperately needed to sleep. It didn’t help him with keeping up his appearances that insomnia and increased anxiety seemed to be one of the most tenacious side-effects of the pills he had been taking for the past few days, so sickly determined to get back the control over his life, or at the very least to pretend that he did. Unfortunately, so far the results he had been achieving were quite the opposite of the intended ones, Riddler popping out to get into yet another argument or just sitting somewhere at the edge of Ed’s vision with more persistence and a gloomy look on his face every twelve hours when it was the time to take another dose of the medication. As frustrating as it was, Ed could only assume that it meant that the drugs were slowly beginning to work, and that the temper tantrums Riddler had been throwing were nothing more than the fear of losing his power, no longer being able to influence Ed, and  _ especially _ not being able to just shove himself behind the steering wheel. It was fine.  _ He _ was fine. Ed was on a good track and all he had to do now was to survive tonight. 

When Oswald had first mentioned a “social gathering” over the phone, Ed expected to attend exactly that--a social gathering, quite small, quite exclusive, quite  _ private _ , with no more than two dozens of guests, the majority of which could be spotted in the Iceberg Lounge on certain evenings, sipping on overpriced drinks named after various species of penguins and fish. So when they had walked into the hall where the event was being hosted, Ed’s arm wrapped around Oswald’s like he was some sort of a trophy wife to show off, and his eyes had fallen upon the sheer amount of people huddled under the crystal chandeliers, easily over fifty of them not including the staff meandering around in crisp wine-red suits, his knees immediately bucked under him. Ed was in love with Oswald. He was truly, really, deeply in love with Oswald and he was  _ desperate _ to make sure that Oswald wasn’t holding any grudges against him, but being thrown into a crowd of this size in his already bad mental and physical condition almost seemed like too much. The fact that everyone seemed to be looking at them, interested to see who did the king of Gotham decide to bring as his plus one, wasn’t helping him with getting a hold of his anxiety, either. During the first hour of their stay there, the beginning of the gathering reserved for mingling around, helping oneself to the appetizers, and so clearly discussing the underworld’s gossip in not so hushed voices, Ed had hoped that some of the champagne being offered to the guests calm him down, but the results were far from satisfactory. Bubbles hit his head like a crowbar as he was finishing his third glass, the world already a little blurry when his cheeks reddened and his heart hammered an off-beat rhythm that seemed to ring in his ears, foretelling a panic attack already fizzing in his stomach. 

Making a truthful excuse, he had squeezed Oswald’s hand and had tried to control his breathing as he passed by the guests in ridiculously expensive outfits with even more ridiculously jewellery, slalomed between the waiting staff, and finally managed to hide in the bathroom. He had been in there for seven minutes already and counting--quite short enough not to raise any serious suspicions, but definitely long enough for it to be considered a bit odd, and if he didn’t want to take another heedless step that would eventually send him to his doom, he should be getting back to Oswald before he had hit double digits. His glasses resting beside the washbin, he cupped his hands under the stream of freezing water and raised them up to his face, rubbing at the skin harshly while droplets rolled down his chin and wrists, trying to get rid of the intoxication that had only made him more confused about his surroundings than giving him the courage to face the vibrating cluster of people. What was even Oswald  _ thinking _ bringing him here after they had agreed that they would keep their relationship strictly to themselves? He was jealous, of course, perhaps Ed’s newly-found friendship with Kristen even made him feel slightly threatened, to parading Ed around in his best suit was either an attempt to convince himself that Ed still belonged to  _ him _ and  _ him  _ only, or it was a way of reminding Ed of the fact. Whichever one of those was really the matter, Ed  _ did _ want to play along with this, but he would have a much easier time with it if the buzzing in his head wasn’t pulsating and shifting impatiently, like he was waiting for the right moment to just-

Exhausted sigh escaping his mouth, Ed scrunched his eyebrows as he pressed the heel of his hand to his browbone, looking up to the ceiling. “Not now,” he groaned, not even throwing a glance at the mirror where he  _ knew _ he’d see Riddler with his gloomy expression and his arms tucked into the pockets of his pants nonchalantly like he didn’t have a single care in the world. “ _ Please,  _ just- just leave. I don't- ugh, I can't deal with you right  _ now _ , I can’t-"

“Of course you can’t,” Riddler interrupted him in a deadpan tone, his shoes clicking against the obscenely white tiles as he stepped in closer, leaning against the counter right next to Ed. “Of course you can’t handle it- any of it. Not like this, at least. Just look at yourself!” he made a sharp gesture towards Ed’s body, waving his hands in an exaggerated manner, theatrical as always. “You’re still high on those drugs you’re so  _ stupidly _ insisting on taking. You know that this night is your last chance at proving yourself that you’re deserving of a redemption in Oswald’s eyes and you’re wasting it away like you’ve tried wasting our potential! Do you  _ seriously _ think that he’s not going to notice that you’re trying to get yourself drunk? You’ll get us killed! If you can’t do this, then at least let  _ me _ handle it, handle  _ him _ !” 

Ed exhaled sharply as he pressed at his closed eyes with his fingers, giving a short shake of his head before he reached for his glasses almost blindly, and stuck them under the stream of cold water, needing to busy his hands with something, anything. “We’ve already talked about this- so many times,” he said and there was a sort of resignation to the way in which he spoke, the weariness that had been tying knots into his muscles for the past weeks making his body feel very, very heavy. The ongoing battle, the constant fights, and more than anything the utter inability to understand Riddler’s motivations had been taking a toll on him greater than he had previously allowed himself to acknowledge, the sheer stress of it making him sick. He was  _ tired _ and he was  _ confused _ and, most importantly, he was  _ tired _ of constantly feeling  _ confused _ . “I’m not going to let you out and just let you- just let you sabotage the life I’ve been trying to make for myself. Not when there’s finally someone who cares about me and- and- and  _ likes _ me for who I am. You should be  _ happy  _ for me,” he then added, the bitterness of it nearly causing his throat to close up, his tongue twitching at the foul taste of it as he put his glasses back on his nose, not minding the droplets on the lenses as he looked at Riddler’s reflection in the mirror. “Isn’t that- isn’t that the whole point of you?” His voice faltered ever so slightly. “To protect me? Then why are you so  _ spiteful _ about seeing me with Oswald, why-”

As soon as those words slipped past his lips from the tip of his dry tongue and hung in the still air between them, something in his brain suddenly  _ clicked _ . The puzzle pieces had begun rapidly coming into focus, falling into their rightful places and snapping together with the bits already laying there, quickly forming a fuller, clearer, more logical image. It was making sense, it was all making  _ painfully _ obvious sense and all of the clues, all of the dots had been there right front of him, and up until now, he had been unable to connect them, either blind to the bright, burning numbers around them or forcing himself to work with an inkless pen. The inexplicable stretch of silence at the very beginning, the guilt-tripping and shaming, the jabs taken at the most tender spots, the rapid changes of behaviour, the persistent nagging and taunting and arguing as if to cause a distraction or enough distress to be able to take over. All of that odd and irrational behaviour, the erraticness and fluctuation of his behaviour, all the manipulativeness and harshness of his words, now given the context and taken his inherent personality traits into account, it was making sense. It was making  _ sense _ . Riddler scrunched his face, arms raising up, impatient as always. “Why, what?”

“Oh my- oh dear-” Ed just breathed out, his blurred eyes wide, his stomach clenched into a tight ball, his throat squeezed nearly completely shut, his lungs dying down in their efforts to take in the oxygen, his heart stuttering and choking up. His bottom lip trembled slightly as half his vision turned foggy with a tear welling up in one of his eyes, but he was not entirely certain whether it was caused by the relief of realisation, the terror of his discovery, or the strange sensation somewhere deep in his chest cavity that he refused to take a closer look at. He felt sick. “You’re  _ jealous _ .” 

Riddler’s entire frame changed. His eyebrows twitched, the corners of his mouth sagged down before rising back up, his arms fell down to his sides before he choked out an ugly, dry scoff. “ _ What _ ?” he asked, his lips stretching to an almost cartoonish smile showing all of his teeth, his eyes crinkling at the corners but there was no spark in them as he chuckled loudly. “Come on, don’t be ridiculous.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I’m not...  _ jealous _ , I-”

Waving his hand rapidly, Ed turned around to face his other self dressed in all black with the fake, empty grin plastered on his face that had always looked just a little bit wrong, just a little bit off. “No,” he said firmly, taking a step forward, his whole body shaking like the safety pins and cheap glue holding him together were about to give out, leaving him to shatter into unsalvageable pieces. “You’re not talking your way out of this one,” he uttered, pointing a single finger to Riddler’s face in an accusatory manner, his teeth clattering against each other. “Oh my- this is so, so  _ obvious _ !” Ed let out a hysterical chortle. “ _ This _ is why you first went quiet for days on end and then when you- when you came back you were so mean and  _ cruel  _ to me! That’s why you’ve been-  _ constantly _ taunting me, you wanted me to get distressed so you could take over without my permission! You were  _ jealous _ that Oswald liked me and you wanted him to  _ yourself _ !”

His features tensing and his face dropping, Riddler moved his head until his neck cracked, mirroring Ed’s inculpatory gesture with his hands. “That is  _ not _ true,” he stressed, but his voice no longer sounded cold and controlled, emotions bleeding into it and exposing his pink insides. “I didn’t want to see you put us in danger or get sorely disappointed yet  _ again _ , that’s why I went away! You might be closing on thirty but on the inside, you’re still a stupid, naive child who can’t see the world and its dangers the second someone offers you as much as a crumb of affection! I had to try to get it through your thick skull or you would get us killed! Oswald had nothing-”

Not waiting for whatever poor, half-baked excuse there had been waiting at the end of that sentence, Ed cut in: “Why do you call him Oswald, then?” he asked and the way in which Riddler flinched back was almost satisfying. Almost. “You used to call him Penguin, like everyone else.  _ I _ started to call him Oswald when he and I got close. If you didn’t want me- if you didn’t want  _ either _ of us around him, you would still be calling him Penguin.” He swallowed around something shaped like a sob, spiced with various shades of hurt and betrayal. “ _ Oswald _ likes  _ me _ . Not  _ you _ . And he likes me for the way  _ I  _ am, so even if he knew you existed, he wouldn’t- I’m not- I’m not letting you take him away from me!” 

It felt like yet another panic attack scratching and gnawing and biting at his guts when he stormed off out of the bathroom, his stomach pressed into a tight ball stuck somewhere around his Adam’s apple, his breathing coming in and out in short, sharp sequences like he was crying but there were no tears streaming down his face. It wasn’t just pain, it wasn’t just hurt, it wasn’t just woe--he was  _ aching _ and he was aching in a way he had never ached before, in a way he could barely comprehend, in a way he did not even know he was capable of. The terror and anguish of his discovery were making him feel dizzy and light-headed even though all the alcohol had already evaporated from his body at the sheer suffocating shock of it. He would have preferred it if all of the mental torment Riddler had been putting through for the past months had been nothing but a twisted and distorted parody of concern, that it was just him being bitter out of the need to form a shield against the harshness of the outside world. He would have preferred it if the constant nagging and taunting and buzzing around like a stubborn fly had been Riddler seeing a deeper potential in the both of them, seeing an array of crystals peeking from the cracks of a geode and wanting to use it to make their names matter in the Gotham’s underworld. But not this. Not  _ this _ . Through their multiple fights, Ed had still foolishly held a small comfort in thinking that Riddler did actually care about him the same way he had once cared about the scared, abused child Ed had once been, but then it had started getting out of control and now he knew why. Riddler never cared about him, not at all. He was just jealous because there was someone who liked Ed, someone who-

“Ed?”

He stopped in his tracks right where he was standing, one of his feet still in the air as he froze, the unbearable tenseness holding a crushing grasp on his body and then closing in even more tightly, pushing him to the point where all of his muscles crackled, threatening to snap. This was a nightmare. This was a nightmare and it seemed like there was no way for him to wake up and all there was for him to do was to keep peeling off the layers of this bad dream until he had gotten to the middle of it and then, well. Perhaps then it would either stop, or it would kill him. But it wasn’t the worst of it yet. “Detective Gordon?” he said slowly as he turned around, the small of his back feeling like there were hot knives jabbed into his spine as he faced one of his coworkers, simultaneously being the last person he would expect to see in this place, among this kind of a crowd, during such a time. “What are you- what are you doing here?”

Jim Gordon took a few steps forward with a frown on his tired face as he put both of his hands on his hips, pushing his suit jacket in such a way that it revealed the badge fastened to the belt of his trousers, but it could likely have had been simply a force of habit. “Police business,” he responded briefly as he took a long look at Ed, from the tips of his expensive leather shoes to the question mark shaped pin in the lapel of his even more expensive suit, the cogs in his brain turning audibly. “Why are  _ you _ doing here?” 

That was the end, then, wasn’t it? Ed was far too shaken up to look inconspicuous or innocent or to pretend that he didn’t realize that he was attending a gathering of quite a few high-profile criminals in an outfit he would never be able to afford on a forensic scientist’s salary, let alone to come up with a believable excuse. Playing dumb would put him in an even worse position than he was already in, and so his best move now would be to say half-truths and omit the full extend of it. “Oh,” he scoffed, putting on a smile as he slid his glasses up his nose before folding his hands in front of his body. “It, uh, I was invited, actually. By someone I’ve known for a while, so I thought it would be rude to decline. I’m not even sure  _ why _ I’m here. What police business are you on?”

It didn’t cut it. If anything, it seemed like now Gordon was more suspicious than before, and Ed couldn’t blame him for it--everything about him, from his stance down to the clench of his jaw screamed guilty. “Invited, huh?” Gordon repeated, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as he tilted his head slightly to the side. “You must have some interesting friends I didn’t know about then, Ed,” he continued, accusatory but still attempting to thread carefully, as if not to startle a scared animal, almost gentle. “ _ Who _ invited you, Ed?”

Before Ed managed to browse through the mental catalogue of names he could possibly pull out in order to potentially free himself from the paralyzing trouble he had found himself in, there came his doom and his salvation in the same person, Oswald’s voice shooting over the hubbub of the conversations around them like a bullet. “James Gordon!” he exclaimed as limped across the room, sick delight already flowing from every dip and crease of his freckled face, his green-blue eyes shining dangerously like those of a predator fixed on its prey. “Whatever brings you here, my old friend?” he asked with sweet poison in his voice as he stopped next to Ed, leaning heavily against his cane like his ankle was already beginning to give out from the day of running around. “You do know that the police were  _ specifically _ asked by the  _ mayor _ not to show up around here tonight, don’t you? It almost looks like you’re breaking the law.”

A sour expression twisting his features, Gordon rolled his eyes. “Pleasure seeing you as always, Oswald,” he lied. “I’m just making sure that everything here is in the right order and none of the guests are doing anything illegal. It’s my job, since you haven’t been exactly keeping tabs on your goons as of late.”

Oswald scoffed, looking down to the floor and licking over his lips before he raised his gaze once again, even more amused than before. “I can assure you that whatever my people are doing is legal, and I pay very good money for it to be so. And you should know about since you live in  _ my _ city.” He raised a finger up. “Which brings us back to the point that you’re a police officer, and you’re at an event where there aren’t supposed to be any police officers. You see, this party is being hosted by Barbara Kean who is a  _ very _ good friend of my mother’s so I made an absolute  _ sure _ there wouldn’t be any disturbances. Which you  _ are  _ causing.” He grinned. “Now, unless you want to lose your badge I would suggest you get out of here before the hostess sees you. I know you and she haven’t parted on exactly good terms.”

Having had said that, Oswald did not wait for the response and simply turned around to walk away, throwing Ed a quick glance that very clearly ordered him to follow the suit and not to stay around waiting for Gordon to connect the dots. Ed stayed there for a few seconds before he gave Gordon a sort of an apologetic smile and stepped back into the crowd, going after Oswald. “Thank you,” he breathed out once he had reached him, fingers wrapping gently around Oswald’s upper arm while his head still pulsated and buzzed, making everything around seem like a frenzied fever dream. “He- he surprised me, I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t come, I- I know you’re still upset with me, but I really wanted to make you happy coming here with you, I don’t want the evening to be ruined and-”

“Eddie,” Oswald interrupted him, reaching up to cup his face with his hand and rub a thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m not upset with you. I didn’t bring you here as some sort of punishment, I just… wanted to show you off.” His voice dropped slightly. “I don’t get to do this much. And since everyone here works for me, none of them would be stupid enough to say a word to anyone even if they somehow recognized you from the station. Not if they wanted to keep all their teeth and fingers, at least.” He slid his hand down onto Ed’s tie, tugging at the slick fabric of it to get him to lower down. “Everything is fine.”

It wasn’t. In fact, everything was so very far from fine that Ed felt like he was balancing on the verge of tears for most of the evening, and it was that overwhelming need for comfort and reassurance that pushed him to lean down and kiss Oswald in the middle of a crowded hall, let Oswald’s fingers curl against the back of his neck and stroke his hair like nothing in the world existed beside them. But the world did exist still, running and moving, and the brightness and the noise of it felt like a punch to the face when Ed pulled back, his temples sizzling with a dull pain, almost making him forget where or who he was. He scoured the people around them confusedly, trying to ground himself back in the moment with the feel of his tie still being pulled at, Oswald’s voice coming to him like from a distance, like his ears were clogged. Although it was coming out of focus, Ed’s eyes finally settled back on a familiar face in the sea of nameless and shapeless ones, his gaze meeting Gordon’s looking at him, looking at  _ them _ from a distanace. He saw it. He saw all of it. He was still watching. 

It was over.


	14. fourteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ!
> 
> Ahh I finally managed to sit down and finish writing the resolution to the previous chapter's conflict! So here you go I hope that this will satisfy and calm your worried about "Oh No What Now" x) also! My university semester is beginning tomorrow AND I got a job AND I'm now in a relationship so as you probably guessed my time will be very limited from now on. I'm still going to be working on this AU as often as I can but please be patient if the chapters won't arrive in their usual weekly instalment and instead they'll turn into biweekly. I'm sorry if this is disappointing news to you but I hope you'll understand that I'm in a really busy and hectic stage of life right now :( either way I hope that you'll enjoy this chapter and as always I would absolutely love to hear your feedback <3

It was unavoidable.

When he had first come back to his senses in the Iceberg Lounge all those months ago, somewhere at the pit of his stomach and between his ribs, Ed had known that from that moment forward, things around and inside him would begin to change and that his life would never be the same ever again. Although at that point he had still been blissfully unaware of just how deeply the shifts and alterations awaiting him would run, the club and what it symbolised had already had him mesmerised, charmed by the bright blue lights and the shadowed leather booths and the atmospheric music so heavy it resonated through his bones. Once he had dipped his toes in the dangerous waters of its ambience there was no turning back for him and he had been pulled under the surface with the cold, dark masses pouring through his mouth and nose, flooding his lungs and forcing him to grow a pair of gills and learn to breathe through it, and the only alternative would be to drown and let it consume him entirely. And before he had even had the chance to let his body adjust to the freezing temperature and the treacherous currents, something else had come around and it had made him burn up like his guts were about to boil and his skin blister, unable to keep up with the sudden developments and sharp turns. Nothing in his life could have had possibly readied him for the sudden plunge into Gotham’s underworld where unprepared, he suddenly had been employed by the city’s very own tyrannic king only to then find himself in a quickly developing affair that had equally rapidly blossomed into something in the shape of a relationship. In a matter of just six months, Ed had gone from being cripplingly lonely and ridiculed by the people around him to having the most powerful man in the city press tender kisses to his neck and whisper sweet promises against his sore lips. Yet, despite all of this, the thing that had left him nearly completely broken and lost like a scared child wandering off the well-known road in the middle of a foggy forest was to find that his other self had been trying to sabotage him all along.

To uncover that Riddler had been infatuated with Oswald all along, and getting into his good grace was the end goal was like to be pulled back to the surface from a great depth, muscles tearing and lungs exploding from the sudden, violent change of pressure, skin chaffing and melting off of broken and mangled bones. Learning this piece of information planted an aching seed in the space behind his heart, and with each breath he took its twisted, thorned shoots spread further and further through his body, wrapping around his insides and crawling into his veins, moving around and biting like a creature of its own. The rotten taste and putrid smell of the incapacitating betrayal were making his eyes water and his head dizzy, like he was constantly stuck in the distressing state of sobering up where he was drunk enough to make the world look skewed, but sober enough to feel a crushing hangover waiting just around the corner. For weeks upon weeks, Ed had been on the edge, his might constantly blaring the alarms and pumping on the breaks while he had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, as if he had been able to sense that there was something terrible about to happen, and now that it did all he wanted was for this hurt to  _ stop _ . Riddler had put him through nothing short of hell--giving him headaches with the constant nagging, keeping him awake at night with anxiety attacks, putting unwanted thoughts inside his head, and doing everything there was in his power to destabilize him to the point where it would be easy to just take over without asking. It wouldn’t have had been the first time he would do such a thing, it wouldn’t have had even been the fifth or the tenth, but each time in the past it had been done for the sake of getting Ed out of the sort of trouble that he would not be able to get out of on his own. This time it was all orchestrated for no other reason than  _ jealousy _ , a twisted and sick need to sabotage Ed’s life and put himself in his place. And that  _ ached _ . 

But that, of course, wasn’t even the end of his hardships yet because the world was a cruel and unforgiving place, and where the universe played favourites he was the bête noire, condemned to struggle in some morbid parody of a poorly written tragicomedy, not allowed to as much as to take a breath and adapt to the new circumstances. The fragile guise of his put-together, almost perfect life had begun to come apart, its thinly thread seam snapping, cheap safety pins giving out under the stress and pressure and letting it split open, its guts spilling out on the floor and filling up his shoes. And it had been foolish of him to think that he could keep this up, that he could go about his days at the station like nothing had ever happened, like he had still been the same, shy, awkward Ed from Forensics, like he wasn’t wadding through blood and gore in designer shoes and bespoke suits. Ever since Oswald had first ordered him to give a performance, it all had been a matter of time before the weight of leading a double life would become a burden far too great to carry and that, eventually, his arms would fall out of its sockets and his spine would snap from the weight of it. The issue was that  _ this _ was not the way he had imagined his mundane life to come to an end, albeit he had to admit it to himself that he hadn’t entertained the thought too much, always too intoxicated with Oswald becoming more and more fond of him. Ed had known that there would eventually come a day when he would have to leave the G.C.P.D. behind and he was more than just fine with that--he only wished that it had been his choice to fully commit to being Oswald’s handpiece, not a sentence passed onto him in the midst of a drugged haze, unplanned and unexpected.

He did  _ not _ feel ready for this step and he no longer was sure if he even  _ wanted _ to take it, to just drop everything he had ever known for the sake of devoting his life to someone who was likely still holding a grudge against him, no matter the truly  _ fantastic _ weekend they had spent together. But it was not the weekend anymore, it was an early Monday morning and Ed was standing by one of the tables in the laboratory, looking through the ocular lense at the sample mounted on the stage but he was not seeing the blurred pink cells below at all. His arms felt way too heavy where they rested on either side of the microscope, like there were stones sewn into the fabric of his suit and the weight of them was rendering fulfilling his duties and concentrating on the task at hand almost impossible. The other shoe was going to drop soon and he was waiting for it, each inaudible tick of his watch reverberating through his marrow, making it seems as though there were swarms of angry hornets buzzing in his bones. But he was safe. He knew he was safe and that no matter how uncomfortable the upcoming confrontation would end up being, no matter who would be notified, no matter how quickly the information would spread through the station, at the end of the day he would walk out of there safely, with his head held high. It was not the concern about whether or not he would be able to make it back home that night, but the waiting for the inevitable that kept chewing him from the inside out, leaving his stomach lining mauled and torn, putting a metallic taste in his mouth. And to think that this wasn’t the only--or the biggest, for that matter--one of his concern was really what was making this whole ordeal seem like a bad joke. 

At half past eight sharp, the door to the Forensics Laboratory gave out a familiar squeak as it was pushed open, tapping of shoes against the floor accompanying the sound, followed by another creak, signalling that the room was closed once again. Ed didn’t move from where he was sitting, not even twitching a single muscle as he pretended to be occupied with analysing the sample that had been sitting in front of him for the good part of the past hour, his forced slow breathing only hitching slightly when he heard a calm and calculated voice coming from behind his back. “Ed… we need to talk.”

Finally pushing himself to put one of his hands on the microscope’s knobs, Ed scrunched his eyebrows and made a little hum under his breath as the cells finally came into focus before his eyes. “I’m afraid I’m just a little bit busy right now,” he said casually, like he didn’t know what Gordon was talking about, like he actually thought that one could believe his poor attempt at playing dumb, like dragging it out and prolonging this torture could in any way benefit him. It was nothing but his pride not wanting to let someone have the satisfaction of holding cards against him in some way, and certainly seeing him kiss the king of the criminal underworld, the very person who had his fingers in the law enforcement’s oozing, decayed wound was quite a powerful one. “I still haven’t finished looking through the evidence from your last case, let alone writing a report on them. They were…  _ really _ sloppily handled, that’s why it’s taking so much time. But I should be done with it by the lunch break.”

With a quiet click of his jaw, Gordon shifted. “We both know that I’m not here because you’re late with a report,” he stressed as he stepped closer to the table Ed was sitting at, putting both of his hands against his hips as he usually did. There was a stern look on his tired face, something in his eyes flickering faintly like he had still been holding to a shred of hope that the things weren’t as they seemed. “It’s about last Friday, at the party, and why you were there.  _ Who _ you were there with.” 

Ed straightened his back as he leaned away from the microscope, but he still did not turn his eyes to Gordon, instead reaching for the opened, mostly blank file lying beside him and taking a black pen out of his suit’s breast pocket. “I already told you why I was there,” he explained simply as he noted down a senseless piece of information he no longer cared about for he knew he would never get to finish this report, but it gave him something to do with his hands as well as a good reason not to face that it was the high time for him reap what he had sown all those months ago. “And you told me why  _ you  _ were there. I don’t think there’s anything else to add. I don’t have a lot of friends, Detective Gordon, there was no reason for me to be impolite to the ones I have.”

Cocking his head to the side and his fingers twitching ever so slightly where they were resting dangerously close to the holster with his gun in it, a new, more sour expression crept onto Gordon’s face as he asked, his voice cold and flat: “You must have some very powerful friends in this case, Ed. Do you kiss them often?”

The breath that involuntarily left Ed’s lungs whistled in between his teeth almost like a hiss, the pen in his fingers giving a tormented crack where he tightened his grip on it almost to the point of snapping, the roaring of his blood once again filling up his ears to the brim, making the world seem muted and tinted red. He had been working for Oswald for six, almost seven months now, showered in gifts for four of them, and almost equally as long getting to indulge in the soft and vulnerable parts not many had the opportunity to taste, much fewer to live long enough to tell the tale. It was an undeniable fact of his life--a chapter of it he had been enjoying more than any that had come before, and it had changed him so much from the inside to the outside that at times he had troubles recognizing the person he saw in the mirror. But he liked it, he  _ loved _ it, and although he sometimes longed for a point where he would no longer be able to be two people at once, now, when the moment had finally come he found himself struggling to let go. The bits and pieces of his previous life had grown into the soft parts of his palms, fusing together with the cells, and to throw it all away would be to rip his skin off and leave the raw inside exposed for everyone to see. Was he really strong enough to do it? “I- I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Ed,” Gordon sighed, frustration sneaking into his voice and making it his home, his movements becoming more restless, more impatient. “You and I both know that you can’t play stupid. I saw you on Friday with Penguin, I  _ saw _ you  _ kiss  _ him.” He made a gesture, a vague one like he wanted to put his hand on Ed’s shoulder and then decided not to, pulling it back and rubbing his own forehead absentmindedly, fingers brushing through his dirty blond hair. “Look, I- I don’t want to make assumptions, I  _ really _ don’t. And I’m not asking you to tell me how long this has been going on, either. But it needs to stop, and it needs to stop  _ now _ . I don’t know what he had promised you, but he  _ lied _ . He’s a liar, that’s what he  _ does _ .” 

His head hurt. Somebody was hammering white-hot nails into his temples again, the heat of them making the inside of his skull boil up and his brain melt, the intensity of it putting colourful spots in front of his vision and making his teeth swell. He breathed out something that only vaguely resembled a disbelieving scoff, his mask and pretend already dropping down. “And how would you know  _ anything  _ about it- whatsoever?” Ed asked as he finally put the pen down, turning on his chair and looking up at Gordon, the self-righteous holier-than-thou Detective James Gordon with his Messiah syndrome, sitting up on his high horse acting like he always knew better, like he always  _ was _ better and that it was his life’s mission to make Gotham  _ clean _ . Only a fool would think it possible to heal something that had been broken, disfigured, and rotten before it had even been born. “How would you know  _ anything  _ about Penguin? About what he’s like? About-”

Gordon leaned in as if to emphasise his point, like the louder he spoke the more sense he was making. “Because I  _ know _ him, Ed, and I know him better than you think you do. I know your social life here at the station hasn’t been ideal, but what do you think you can gain from being Penguin’s lapdog? He’s just trying to manipulate you because he clearly doesn’t think he has enough corrupt officers in here!” He shook his head, almost disapprovingly. “Just- just go to the Commissioner, Ed. Just tell them everything and we can put all of this behind us. You don’t have to lose your job, you don’t have to lose your life. Not for  _ him _ .”

Squaring his shoulders and raising his chin, steel in his voice and ice in his eyes, Ed asked: “And if I refuse?”

Although he had so clearly intended on keeping his face neutral, something still twitched right under Gordon’s eye and right next to his cheek and right above his lip, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing but he wasn’t ready to give up on someone he thought needed his saving just yet. And that,  _ that _ was exactly the reason why Ed’s blood felt warmer and his heartbeat sounded louder and his mouth felt dryer, to have someone look at him like he was still a child not knowing the difference between the right or wrong, not understanding the consequences of his actions, or not being trusted to make his own decisions was  _ humiliating _ . He hated it, he hated when people just assumed that they needed to act around him in a special way just because he behaved a little differently, like he was any less of the grown man that he was. He was twenty-nine, for Christ’s sake, he had two degrees, he had more knowledge stored and filed in his head than the rest of the G.C.P.D. combined. He was not a child and he was  _ not _ going to stand being treated like one. He  _ knew _ what he was doing, he  _ had known _ what he had been doing since the start. “Then I’m going to have to report you.”

That was the moment when something inside him snapped. It started with nothing more than a tremble in the corner of his mouth before it spread like a disease, overtaking his entire face and putting a wide, almost Riddler-like grin on it, his cheeks dimpling and all of his teeth showing. There was a sound that resonated through the inside of his chest like a melody, vibrating deep in his throat as he stood up from where he was seated, whole four inches taller and looking down with the intensity that made the edges of his vision blur out and darken. “You’re going to-  _ report _ me?” he echoed like he was repeating a punchline of an especially good joke, the utter absurdity of the situation tickling just behind his ears. “ _ That _ is your plan? You’re going to go to the Commissioner’s office and- and you’re going to tell them that Ed Nygma- the shy, awkward Ed Nygma from Forensics is sleeping with the king of Gotham?” As soon as he finished this sentence, his entire face dropped almost instantaneously, smile disappearing like it had never been there, voice lowering, wrinkles smoothing out. He took a step forward, so close to Gordon that their faces were merely inches apart, eyes staring into one another, awaiting the next move. “And who is going to believe you?”

Ed did not wait for the answer, and he was not planning on staying at the station any longer, either--all he wanted to do was to make a point, to finally say it out loud to someone other than himself like a confession far too long perched in his throat, to prove that he knew what he had been doing and that he was more than fine with his decisions. It felt  _ liberating _ despite the bitter taste at the tip of his tongue, tanged just one shade away from regret. He reached for his pen and tucked it back into his pocket right before he ripped his lab ID card from it and let it fall down to the ground with a quiet  _ pat _ resonating through the still silence of the room. He stepped on the badge, the heel of his shoe making the plastic covering split as he turned around and marched out, still hearing Gordon calling out after him, but remaining entirely different to it. It felt as though his ribs uncoiled to make more space for his fast-paced heart and his expanding lungs, like it was the first time since he could remember that he was finally able to breathe with his whole chest. Within the next five minutes he was already leaving the G.C.P.D. behind and unlocking the door to his car, not even bothering himself with getting the little belongings he had had in his locker, knowing there was nothing worth returning for. The only sorrow spoiling his taste of victory and freedom was that there had been no time for him to say goodbye to Kristen who over the last two months had become the best--and possibly the only real--friend he had ever had. But he was all too aware that if he were to confess, they would not part on good terms and he didn’t wish to spoil these memories in his mind. They were far too dear to him.  _ So that’s it _ , he could only think to himself when he left the parking lot of the station with the intention of never returning to this place ever again, leaving behind something more than just his position. This was the end of the career he had been pursuing for the past decade and the life he had been so clumsily trying to craft, but he felt  _ light _ \--it was not the kind of life he was carved out for, clearly, and there were far greater things he could put his skill to now.

He knew Oswald’s daily schedule by heart, and taking the traffic and the distance into consideration, Ed was almost a hundred percent positive that Oswald should be at the Lounge by the time he had gotten there, and he was fluttering with excitement to deliver the news. On more than one occasion, Oswald had suggested that Ed could just leave his work to be with him full-time, and that whatever experiments and research he would still like to conduct could be arranged for him if only he so wished, and it was Ed who had been the one holding back. But it was all in the past now and there was such euphoria coursing through his veins as he drove through Gotham’s busy streets that it barely took him any effort at all to suppress and ignore the familiar buzzing that had sparked up at the back of his head the second he had gotten into his car. He was in far too overwhelmingly great mood to let himself be pulled into yet another game, yet another ploy, yet another attempt of sabotage, and the medication already building up in his system seemed to only make it easier despite the unpleasant side-effects. Through Old Gotham, past the Wayne Tower, and to Tricorner, it took him less than forty minutes to get to the building the Iceberg Lounge was situated at the top of, and only five more to actually set up a foot in the club, the security guards barely acknowledging him besides a polite nod as he walked past them. A feverish smile already found its way into the edges of his lips as he stepped into the adjacent office without knocking, his entire being shivering from the warm frenzy. “Oswald!”

Oswald gazed up at him from where he was sitting in his chair with a big, steaming cup in his hand, the surly and displeased look on his face indicating that he hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep last night, but his expression changed as soon as he saw who had come to bother him this early in the morning. He immediately perked up, sitting up and squaring up his shoulders like he wanted to look more presentable, the leather of the bands around his arms glimmering faintly in the morning sun seeping inside through the big, round window behind. “Eddie?” he asked confusedly, putting his mug down and grabbing onto the edge of the desk to help himself up to his feet. “What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow evening.”

“I know. I know,” Ed said lightly as he raised his arms up and spread them to the sides for a brief moment. “I quit.”

With his eyebrows sliding up on his forehead so high it made wrinkles dig deep, Oswald blinked very slowly, his head tilting back like he had just been spat on. “Excuse me?” he uttered, and although he so clearly tried to make his voice low and controlled and firm, there was a crack and a spike right before the question mark, like he couldn’t believe the words he was hearing. He reached for his cane and wrapped his hand around it so tightly his knuckles turned white, pushing at the fine, pale skin from the inside so harshly like they were about to cut through and break free. “What the  _ hell _ is that supposed to mean, you quit? You can’t- you can’t just  _ quit _ ! What do you-”

It was only when he noticed the distress creeping into Oswald’s posture, making him tremble slightly like his body was not big or strong enough to keep all of the emotions inside that Ed had realised how poorly he had chosen his phrasing. “Oh- oh, Oswald, no!” he mused as he came in close, putting both of his hands on Oswald’s shoulders and rubbing his thumbs against the fabric of the crisp, black waistcoat. “I quit, past tense. I quit my job at the station. Well- well, technically Gordon told me that he saw me kiss you and that he was going to report me if I didn’t turn myself in, so I told him that nobody would believe him anyway, but then I decided that it was the high time for me to quit anyway, so.” He shrugged, still smiling. “I did. I just left. It felt  _ good _ , I really should have done it a while ago, I don’t even know why I  _ wanted _ to keep sticking around there, it’s not like I was exactly popular or the work was challenging. And now I can stay with you!”

For a moment, Oswald looked up to him with a perplexed face like he was struggling to make sense of the sudden burst of information, but once the last sentence poured out of Ed’s mouth, he let out a breath of relief coloured like laughter. “You scared me for a moment, Eddie. I wouldn’t want to have to get rid of you.” He reached up to stroke Ed’s cheek with the back of his hand before pinching his chin affectionately. “That is-  _ very _ good information, actually. I’m going to have to send Jim Gordon an expensive bottle, his nosiness worked in my favour for once.” His fingers curled around the lapel of Ed’s suit, tugging at it gently, almost playfully. “This calls for a celebration, don’t you think?” he asked, smirking. “I think I can arrange to clear my schedule for today.”

There was no going back.


	15. fifteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! PLEASE READ !!!
> 
> First--please be gentle with me I really struggled to write this chapter and I'm overall not Too satisfied with it but if I spend any more time on it I will simply start making it worse. 
> 
> Second--in case you haven't read my author's notes the last chapter I am announcing once again that starting tomorrow I am a.) beginning my first year of university and b.) starting a job on top of c.) trying to get myself back into learning languages and d.) being in a relationship which means that,,, well yeah I will have less time to write now. I did make schedules for myself for every day of the week so I should still have at least an hour a day to work on my fic but please understand that it is likely that the chapters won't be updated weekly anymore. I should expect more of 10-14 day gaps between chapters--if I'm especially busy it might take a bit longer. I hope that you will understand and keep reading either way because we only have about 30% of the fic left and,,, well not to spoil anything for anyone but I DO have an idea for another AU that I MIGHT start writing once this one is done so 👀 I really do hope that you will stick around with me!!
> 
> That is all please enjoy the chapter and I'm looking forward to reading your thoughts in the comments as always!! It really means a lot to see you take a moment to share 🥺

He had left everything behind.

It had been two weeks since Ed had walked out of the G.C.P.D. with the intention of never returning there again and since then he had been walking around taking longer steps and breathing with a fuller chest, his head held high like he had grown three inches and his shoulders light like a great weight had been lifted off of them. Looking at it from the perspective of time, he could barely comprehend what it was exactly that had been even holding him back from taking that leap of faith for so long; from throwing away the barely survivable existence he had never been satisfied with for something entirely different, something more alluring, something  _ dangerous _ . Just one day after his resignation from the position as a forensic scientist at the police station, he had been officially elected to be Oswald’s chief of staff which, really, was only a fancy name for a personal assistant. But even a role as simple as that had quickly proven itself to be vastly more interesting and challenging than what Ed had been doing so far. Now, he was in charge of having an eye on Oswald’s official and not-so-official businesses, keeping the more important records, setting up and cancelling appointments, making and receiving calls from anyone influential enough to have Penguin’s number, and carefully arranging detailed schedules. Doing such things for the king of Gotham engaged him far more than investigating a scene of petty theft-turned-stabbing for the tenth time that month, and managing Oswald’s temper tantrums had only further proven that this was exactly where he was supposed to be. Over the course of just a few days, Ed had come from being a nameless and faceless pretty thing Penguin liked to keep around for his entertainment, to having a recognizable, respectable, and  _ known _ name. He was no longer simply observing the criminal underworld from a safe distance and barely dipping his toes in it--now he was quickly becoming an integrated and important part of it with a reputation and a title of his own, swimming deep underneath the surface.

Everything had been turning for the better for him, and although he had had no regrets, there was still some bitterness staining the back of his throat at the thought that to get here, he had had to betray and leave behind the only friends he had ever managed to make on his own. But it was no matter and the sour taste was fading away quickly the more he had been rationalising it in his head--neither Kristen nor Lee would ever look at him the same knowing about his other side,  _ especially _ about his relationship with none other than Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. And that relationship had been blossoming, flourishing, and  _ thriving _ now more than it had ever before, all due to Ed making the commitment of devoting his life to the darker side of the city, proving his loyalty to Oswald in a manner so grand that even Fish had changed her attitude towards him, reassured of his intentions. It had been made public during one of the press conferences Oswald would so often give as the unofficial ruler of Gotham, when after announcing his new chief of staff, he had pulled Ed up close and kissed him on live television, in front of the flashing cameras. Following day, not a single newspaper had failed to make their picture cover half of the front page with some variation of “Penguin’s secret lover” as the headline, the news spreading like wildfire and establishing Ed’s position on the city’s scene. On top of that, he had also left his apartment, partially for his own safety, partially because there had no longer been a good reason to force himself to keep away anymore. He had moved into the house Oswald had inherited after his father had passed away--a cosy little thing with high ceilings and old furniture, colourful stained glass put in place of half of the windows. There was a fireplace in the living room with a portrait of Elijah Van Dhal hanging over it, and just enough space for two offices, a library, and a laboratory. It was nice. It felt like  _ home _ .

As if to make the matters even better, despite all the hassle and hubbub of leaving the G.C.P.D. after being--rightfully so--accused of having private relations with one of the most prolific criminals in all of Gotham, the past weeks had been surprisingly quiet, even if it was only on the inside of Ed’s own head. Ever since having had been called out on his mind games and manipulations, and most importantly being discovered in his feelings for Oswald, Riddler hadn’t spoken a single word, remaining quiet and invisible even though that fateful press conference. He had still been there, existing somewhere at the back of Ed’s brain like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, the steady hum and white noise of his presence as constant and everpresent as always, only every so often spiking up or dying down slightly but never quite going away or rising loud enough to signal a manifestation. Ed wanted to believe, so very badly, that it was simply the right dose of medication that had finally started working at keeping Riddler at bay, but the two of them had been with each other for far too long to let one believe this possibility, and if anything, it was nothing but a quiet before a storm. After all, he had already done this before--fallen quiet for days upon days, stewing in whatever emotions had been tormenting him and likely scheming yet another plan to overtake the body--and there was nothing that could possibly suggest that he would not be able to do that again. Especially not now, when the fact of his feelings was out in the open and Ed was all shades too aware of it, every reminder of the matter like boiling water poured into his skull, making him boil on the inside and blister on the outside. It was like yet another inevitable sentence looming over him, gathering like a dark cloud and all he could do was to keep himself on the edge and wait for the rainpour, hoping that the storm of it would not electrify him beyond repair.

Nevertheless, Ed tried as best as he could not to ponder over every little change in the hum’s frequency and tone, instead trying to focus more on settling into a comfortable, nearly domestic routine of living with Oswald, enjoying all the little moments he had never known he craved so deeply. There was something so very intimate and precious, glittering and shining like diamonds catching and breaking the sun rays in their polished surfaces, in simply being able to wake up in the morning at ease, knowing he could lean more into the warmth and not worry about being late for work and risking someone finding out. It also made him feel so incredibly important to experience the more tender, more human face of the man pulling at all the strings of a city inhabited by ten million people. Ed reckoned not many of them had had the chance to see  _ the _ Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot in a purple pyjama set, with his hair all sort of messed up and protruding in every direction possible, rubbing at his face like a child pulled out of a deep slumber. The clock on one of their bedside tables ticked half-past nine when Ed sat down at the edge of the bed with a breakfast tray in his hands, all cooked, prepared, and brought upstairs by him, despite the housekeeper’s stink eyes thrown at him. Although the day in a crimelord’s life didn’t frequently begin at an hour this late, and even less often after a full night of sleep, whenever a morning such as this rolled around it was meant to be cherished for as many fleeting, fragile moments as it was possible. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Ed hummed softly as he waited for Oswald to come back to his senses patiently, knowing that as many things as he was, an early bird  _ definitely _ was not one of them. “Hungry?”

“Good morning,” Oswald grunted in response, his voice still hoarse and sticking to the walls of his throat as he reached out for the steaming cup of ginger tea on the tray in Ed’s lap almost blindly, wrapping both hands around it and putting it up close to his face. “Ugh, my head is pounding. I might actually need a coffee after this,” he sighed tiredly as he took a sip, sitting back against the pillows behind him comfortably, pulling one of his knees up. “What’s that? Is that a quiche?” 

Ed couldn’t help but give Oswald a fond smile as he picked up one of the plates, still entirely amused just how distracted and groggy Gotham’s very own king was in the mornings, no matter the amount of hours or the quality of his sleep. “It is, I just made it for you five minutes ago,” he said as he handed the dish over, his heart tickling his lungs like it was covered in fluff and fuzz and turned soft at the sheer domesticity he was indulging in like the love-struck idiot that he was. “I thought you might want to have something warm in the morning after you’ve been out for so long, I don’t think I even remember you coming to bed before I fell asleep. I wanted to wait for you but I was dozing off over the documents and, well, I  _ did _ want to cook for you in the morning so I knew I’d have to get up earlier to get everything ready. I wasn’t sure if there were eggs left, I mean,” he babbled away, trying not to make it seem like he was asking Oswald where he had been, although the curiosity was eating him from the inside. He did not like not knowing things. 

Digging his fork into a thick slice of the quiche, Oswald looked up at Ed through the tangled mess of his black hair, one of his eyebrows raising slightly as he put the tea away. “I was with Fish, Eddie,” he explained smoothly as he blinked, not needing a single second to think of the answer. “Once we were done with business, I stayed to have a few drinks with her. God knows she and I didn’t have much time to talk lately between running the city and everything else that’s been happening.” He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully, suddenly solemn with his eyes fixed on Ed’s own, but their blurriness hinted that his mind was already elsewhere, occupied. “She’s thinking about leaving Gotham, like Carmine Falcone did.”

This piece of information was not exactly what Ed had expected to hear. He hadn’t had suspicions of any kind--if anything, he was inquiring out of sheer curiosity and the itchy, almost obsessive need to be aware of every happening in the underworld, to take every turn of events and shift of the atmosphere into consideration while making decisions on Oswald’s account. Learning that Fish Money,  _ the  _ Fish Mooney who ruled over the underworld just as much as Oswald did, albeit more behind the scenes than in the spotlight of it, was now considering what sounded like retirement was surprising, to say the least. “Leaving?” Ed echoed as he slid across the bed closer to Oswald, resting a hand on his knee and looking at him carefully. Fish was like a mother to him, this must have had taken a jab at him, even if he was pretending that it didn’t bother him, like he could do all of this on his own and he didn’t need anyone’s help. “What do you mean, leave? After all she’s done to get where she’s now she just wants to… go?”

With a simple nod of his head, Oswald put another bite in his mouth, a bitter expression on his face. Having had climbed from the gutters onto the very top, he was talented in many areas and capable of great  _ and _ gruesome things, managing a city of ten million people without a single one stepping out of the line without consequences, yet, somehow, hiding his emotions seemed entirely beyond him. He was  _ upset _ . “That- that is pretty much it, yes. She said that she can’t stand this city anymore and all of its filth and that after years and years she’s done everything for it that she possibly could. She said she was tired, needed a break, or something more permanent. That she would have to see.” He stopped there, his teeth clenching under his fine, pale skin, his cheekbones and jawline sharper and more pronounced in the golden light seeping into the room through the high windows. “Anyway,” he uttered, raising his head. “Please, tell me that I don’t have any pointless meetings or conferences or important places to be today. I  _ desperately _ need a day in. Maybe dinner at the Lounge?”

Aching to move forward and simply giving him a hug, it took almost all of Ed’s strength to stay where he was seated, all too aware that Oswald  _ hated _ appearing weak more than anything else, and that insinuating that he might be in need of emotional support could only pointlessly anger him. “I-” he began slowly, fidgeting with one of the napkins, “I was setting up your schedule for this week so late last night I’m not entirely sure if you have an appointment with a representative from the Narrows today or tomorrow. I can go and bring it from my office, but- I, uh-” a smile tickled the corners of his mouth as his ears suddenly felt hotter, excitement boiling up deep inside him. Without a doubt, Oswald had been managing and taming the stertorous, fire-breathing machine of the underworld with the skill and precision of someone who had simply been born to do it, understanding the subtle changes in the waves and intricate connections of the nets of communication. But, still, every so often there would be someone stupid enough to forget who was making all of this tick, someone who thought that it would be in everyone’s best interest to try to dethrone the king, and sometimes the situation was far too delicate to be tinkered with somebody as hot-heated as Oswald. Thankfully, that was where Ed could step in and shine, crafting plans that could not only preserve Penguin’s status, but perhaps elevate it even further. “I think I might’ve found a way to solve your little Figgis problem.”

Marcus Anthony Figgis was a low-life pathetic excuse of a criminal who, after the sudden and unexpected death of his older brother, was the next in line to become the head of one of the smaller, less significant gangs in Gotham. He was a weak drunkard and an overall failure, struggling to keep his people in line or succeed at any one of his miserable schemes to gain at least a fraction of the respect they had once held for his brother and their father before that. Normally, he had so little influence on the underworld’s scene that he posed barely, if any, threat at all, but lately, there had been unrest in the street and crime families, words of half-baked ideas whispered in the dark corners of shabby pubs over glasses of cheap whiskey. As it turned out after, frankly, a minimal amount of investigation, Figgis had had a truly  _ genius _ plan of trying to turn the less numerous gangs against Oswald, telling them tales of Penguin’s riches and pointing out the lack of fairness in which he had been ruling. On their own, those people wouldn’t be able to do as much as to blow a single hair on Oswald’s head, but if they were to join their forces they could cause quite a disarray, throwing sticks and stones into the cogs of the otherwise perfectly functioning system. He had to be dealt with and he had to be dealt with in a subtle manner--a direct action was entirely out of question because if the underworld were to see Penguin bothering himself with someone as insignificant as Figgis, it could put thoughts into the heads of those who held more power, disturbing the fragile peace. Oswald was an excellent king, but he had an incredibly short temper, so this was one of the matters too subtle to deal wit and he seemed to be aware of it, and it was only his pride that was keeping him away from asking someone else for help. Thankfully, Ed was here now and formulating plans was one of the many things he excelled at. Hearing his words, Oswald perked up slightly, eyes shining. “What do you mean?” he asked, putting the now empty plate away. 

“Figgis is broke,” Ed began simply, trying to keep his voice calm and calculated but the thrill of being able to prove himself to Oswald was making him shiver, the edges of his frame blurred from the high frequency. “Everyone knows that all the cash and assets Arthur had left him is long gone and he spent it all on poorly prospering strip clubs and alcohol he definitely couldn’t afford. Now he’s trying to turn people against you so he can climb the ladder and get more influence and, consequently, more money he could just waste away on even more bad investments.” He put the tray to the side and pulled his legs up onto the bed, sliding a bit closer to Oswald with a slight fever in his movements as he gesticulated lively. “We know  _ exactly _ who Figgis had been talking to, we know which families he had been meeting with and pitching his ridiculous plan to. You, on the other hand, have Zsasz and Wendell and you know that their staff can be discreet if they want to. Finding out where all of those gangs keep their money would take them a day, maybe two at most and then… then they  _ steal _ .” Ed opened his hands, putting his fingers apart. “If we empty their stash houses shortly after they had been getting closer to Figgis, what do you think is going to happen? They’re going to think that  _ Penguin _ , who has enough money to buy a small country would go through all this trouble to get a few hundred thousand? No! They’re going to think that  _ Figgis _ came up with all of this only to steal from them. They’ll take care of Figgis  _ for you _ , and if they have any brains at all they will also realise that only someone as stupid as him could ever possibly think that they can dethrone you.”

There was a short stretch of silence, the words hanging in the air between them before Oswald chuckled suddenly, a smile spreading across his freckled face as he reached out to cup Ed’s face with his cold hands, pulling him into a kiss. “Oh, Eddie, you’re  _ brilliant _ ,” he exclaimed, the praise making Ed’s guts turn and twist, sending tingles through all of his nerves and making his breathing hitch. “I knew you’re going to make a great chief of staff, but you’re truly outdoing yourself. This… this is going to work and I barely even have to do anything.” He exhaled, giving Ed one more peck before he turned around, reaching to the bedside table to grab one of his phones. “I’m going to call Victor right away. Tell him to get Wendell and get on it as soon as possible. I know he was going to see one of his missus or misters today, but this,  _ this _ is more important.”

Nodding enthusiastically, Ed’s heart grew in his chest at the praise and validation, the sudden rush of oxytocin making his head spin a little. “I’ll go get your schedule,” he muttered as he heard the click of the line coming from Oswald’s phone, a disturbingly breathy voice on the other side speaking up. Leaving Oswald to cancel Zsasz’s vacation and send him on his quest, Ed stood up from the bed and walked out of their bedroom, his bare feet sinking into the fluffy carpets as he passed through the corridors and descended down to the ground floor in order to get to his office. Usually, he would remember this sort of thing, keep it meticulously catalogued in his brain but after staying up for over twenty hours he was simply dozing off over the documents last night before he had finally decided to not wait up and simply go to bed. He stepped inside and walked towards the desk, eyes already scanning for the right papers as he suddenly heard a high-pitched sound, the hair at the back of his head and covering his forearms bristling, goosebumps appearing. “You can’t ignore me forever, you know, Ed. I’m  _ still _ here and I’m not going anywhere.” 

With a long, slowly exhale as to keep his composure, Ed’s fingers wrapped tightly around one of the purple folders as he picked it up, bending it slightly out of shape as a headache immediately burned up behind his eyes and scratched at the inside of his skull. Not this  _ again _ . “I can, actually,” he said confidently as he flipped through the pages, skimming through the timetables and the dates written on top of the document to find the right one. “I can, and I will, I’m not- I’m not  _ talking _ to you. What are you even doing  _ here _ ? You’ve been gone for two weeks you might have as well  _ stayed _ gone.”

Riddler scoffed as he moved from where he was standing in the corner of the room, sitting down in Ed’s chair and cocking his head to the side, half-nonchalantly, half-challengingly. “You know me better than that, you knew I’d come back eventually. I just had to…  _ think _ ,” he put a lot of emphasis on that last word, like he was only beginning to talk, like he had a whole speech prepared that Ed did  _ not _ care to listen to in the slightest. He just wanted to take the folder and go back upstairs, press his face into Oswald’s chest and listen to his beating heart until the tenseness would leave his neck once again. “And you know  _ exactly _ why I’m here and what I’m going to say-”

“No,” Ed responded without missing a beat, not even sparing a look at his other self. Things had been going well for him for the past two weeks--better than he had originally anticipated, and the last thing he needed right now was for Riddler to start intervening again, trying to knock him off balance. “How aren’t you tired of having the same conversation over and over again? I’ve already told you I wasn’t going to let you out, and I’m not going to do this now just because you say pretty please.” He shook his head, making a dismissive gesture with his hand, already tired. “I’m  _ not _ letting you ruin this for me and I’m  _ definitely _ not letting you meddle with my relationship with Oswald.”

His expression barely faltering, Riddler gave an unimpressed scoff, not even getting up from his seat. “You, your, yours, you’re starting to sound like a broken record, Ed. Not  _ everything _ is about you. And, who knows, maybe if your tiny, smooth brain finally comprehended that I’m a person too, it would spare you the headache. Or you would at least stop putting that shit in our body but, oh, you can be quite delusional sometimes.” He moved his head to the other side, waving a single finger all over Ed’s body, from his unruly curls down to the hem of his plaid pyjama pants. “This- this is not you. You do know what it’s just pretty packaging, right?” he asked, very much rhetorically, before pointing one of his slightly crooked fingers with cartoonishly wide knuckles right between his eyes. “You’re in _ there _ and, what might come to you as a shock,  _ so am I. _ ” He chuckled. “Oh, I have as much of a right to be here as you do, Ed. And I’m vastly more interesting than you are, what makes you think that I would  _ want _ to dumb myself down and pretend to be you?”

Suddenly, it clicked, the realisation pouring over Ed like a pitcher of ice-cold, dirty water as it got to him what Riddler had been insinuating this time--yet another one of his crazy plans and unattainable goals. An amused, strangled sound escaped his throat at the sheer absurdity of the idea, a chuckle tickling in his belly. “Oh, no. No, that is very much  _ not  _ happening, no. I’m not- I’m not telling him about you… and before you even suggest it,” he then added as he looked over the stacks of documents to grab another folder, showing that he was no longer interested in the conversation and that he  _ definitely _ wasn’t taking Riddler seriously, “I’m not letting you do it, either. How would you even go about it? “Hi, I’m Riddler and I live inside Ed’s head”? How do you think he would even react to something like that, he’s going to think I’m  _ crazy _ .”

Expression turning bitter, Riddler got up, circling the desk so stand right next to Ed. “You  _ owe  _ me. You  _ owe _ me, Ed,” he almost hissed out through clenched teeth, eyebrows drawing together on his large forehead. “You owe me for every time  _ I _ was the one who took  _ your _ beating. You owe me for every time  _ I  _ got  _ you _ back to safety. You owe me for even meeting Oswald in the first place! You owe me for prospering well in the underworld. You know you wouldn’t be able to do without me, you only know how to behave here and what to say because you’re trying to emulate  _ my _ personality. Admit it! You’re just scared because you know that Oswald would end up liking me more than he likes you!”

That felt like being pushed down a flight of stairs and then getting kicked and punched and stomped on until his ribs were broken, his skin bruised, insides turned into swollen bags of barely recognisable shredded meat, and it felt like this because it was  _ true _ . Although he had been doing his best to push those thoughts as far into the darkest corners of his mind as he possibly could, he shouldn’t be surprised that someone with access to the inside of his brain would figure this out--pull out the box containing his fears, blow the dust from the top of it, and then peer it open to let everything out. Oswald liked Ed and he knew that--it was a fact and to deny it would be to forget about the countless gifts and the gentle touches and the sweet words whispered against flushed skin, but that did not mean that he couldn’t like someone else  _ better _ . The idea of that terrified Ed, injecting him with freezing liquid down to the marrow of his bones, but the perspective of Oswald growing fonder of Riddler was only the tip of the iceberg in the sea of doubts and uncertainties. Riddler knew this--he knew that telling anyone that they were two, and not one as everyone thought, was a risky move and that it was a treacherous game to play, but that was just the thing about him--he was overconfident and he  _ loved _ danger. And more than anything else, he loved to make the right move,  _ especially _ if the right move involved plunging a knife into someone’s chest. Ed didn’t say anything, he just opened one of the drawers of his desk and grabbed an orange bottle from the inside.

He did not know how this would end.


	16. sixteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, listen,,, listen,,, I know I said that the updates would be less frequent from the last week forward but listen,,, the first week of uni was almost purely introductions.I don’t have any assignments yet. I only had two shifts at work this week. The part of the country I live in has just its COVID restrictions tightened so I can’t see my close friend and my boyfriend for at least a month. I needed my escapsim so there’s a chance that I--uh how do you say it--ignored all of my responsibilities for the sake of slouching over my laptop for eight hours to write this chapter? Yeah something like that. Anyway I hope you’re enjoying the ride because we have only a few chapters left! But remember--I might just write another AU after this who knows who knows 👀 leave me some comments I can read while I struggle to find time to write the next chapter perhaps?

He was not well.

Ever since his last argument with Riddler, Ed’s new-found peace of mind and the strangely grotesque comfort of stability in the life he had finally pushed himself to embrace had begun to crumble, the shining layer of varnish peeling away from the all-too-perfect picture, showing the splintered canvas, cracked paint, and faded colours underneath. Allowing himself to become fully immersed and engulfed in the criminal underworld by Oswald’s side had put him in a state of such mesmerising high that his perception of the world and the happenings around him had been significantly skewed, strings and twirls of pink mist clouding his eyes at all times. To be forced to snap out of it felt like having his head violently pulled up above the level of the masses of black water surrounding him, only realising how much his lungs burned for a breath of fresh air when they expanded rapidly, causing all the cells to scream in a burning unison. Had it been a month ago, Ed would have had still held a shred of hope that this was nothing more than Riddler’s attempts at trying to destabilise him to the point where it would be easy to simply shove himself in front of the steering wheel, but the fact of his feelings for Oswald was only making the ordeal of it much more terrifying. Knowing that the cause of Riddler’s cruelty was envy, it had been foolish of Ed to think that he would simply go away or stop showing up, and it was even more foolish of him to hope that, eventually, Riddler would let go. But instead, he had taken jabs at all the soft and tender spots to try to prove his superiority, and now his words were stuck in Ed’s head on a neverending loop, playing over and over again, and with each replay it felt like his sanity was slipping through his fingers a bit more and more. 

A sharply-cut possibility that there had been some rhyme and reason to Riddler’s spite-filled train of thoughts on its own had caused Ed enough stress to push him into increasing the dose of his medication once again, too afraid of what could happen when the last thread holding his psyche together would break. A solution such as this was far from perfect, putting him in a constant state of a mild overdose where he was still sober enough to perform his tasks and pretend that his mind was clear, but simultaneously high enough that if were anyone to have any suspicious, they would see him sweat with empty eyes like he was halfway into a delirium. It was bad for him and he could feel his body protest every time he would force pills down his clenched throat--his hands shaking beyond control, appetite and sleeping pattern gone, shivers and beads of sweat running down his spine at all times, headaches that could not be tamed no matter the aspiring and ibuprofen, and all of that on top of the perpetual anxiety that Oswald would find out. Sometimes, especially when his stomach twisted so tightly like it wanted to crawl out of his mouth, Ed wished he could simply come clean and reveal everything, but to confess would be to admit that he had been lying to Oswald since the very beginning, but also to acknowledge Riddler’s autonomy as his own person, not just a creation of a sick mind. He couldn’t tell, which one of these possibilities scared him the most, but both of them seemed inevitable and always sitting right there, in the corner of his eyes, just out of the field of vision, like a starved predator waiting for the right moment to reveal itself and sink its teeth in the terrified prey’s neck. Like all things in life, this make-believe, cut-out cardboard parody of stability would come to an end, and he could feel it deep in the marrow of his bones that it would end soon, so, for now, he wanted to keep up the illusion for just a bit longer, control the damage, drag it out until the end of time.

For now, in the fragile spaces between sleepless nights and throbbing headaches carefully hidden away from the perked ears and the prying eyes, on the outside for everyone to see, Ed was thriving and further establishing himself on the city’s criminal scene, proving himself in Oswald’s eyes and as an excellent chief of staff. His plan to manipulate the lesser gangs into turning against Figgis had worked in every quarter of an inch as he had expected it--Zsasz and Wendell had stolen the money to hide them away for the time being, which in a matter of just two days resulted in Figgis’ barely recognisable, mangled body to be pulled out of the river running between Tricorner and Old Gotham. Oswald had been overjoyed at the outcomes, now believing in Ed’s abilities and his usefulness even more than before, all of it resulting in Ed being given more responsible duties and tasks to satisfy his ambitions, as well as presented with a penguin-shaped pin to put in the lapel of his suit. It was endearing and, frankly, it felt  _ good _ to know that now, when their relationship had been made public, Oswald had made even more of a point to show it to everyone that he was absolutely off-limits, indulging in being able to call Ed  _ his _ . But it was not just in the privacy of the Iceberg Lounge that Ed could shine--anyone who had had the misfortune of taking the wrong step to offend  _ the _ Penguin himself in one way or another had been quick to learn that troubleshooting and anger management was something he excelled at. He hadn’t needed long to lose any and all sympathy for the criminals trying to outsmart Oswald, but with his rational way of thinking and ability to see the bigger picture, he had managed to save a few people who could turn out to be more useful alive than dead in the long run.

Whatever person he had been when he had still been working at the G.C.P.D. was now gone and he had never felt better about his life or about himself--what he did and what he said and the mere fact of his existence now  _ mattered _ , but with as many perks and positives as it had come, this territory also had its downsides. He was still plagued by the looped recording forever playing behind his ears, whatever achievements or reasonable decisions he had made, he could no longer shake off the feeling that none of this had been his own, and that all the results he had been getting were nothing but weak attempts at mimicking Riddler. Every so often he would catch himself considering more drastic measures and risky plans, or his lips stretching in a grotesque smile and hands moving in a dramatic way, a few seconds too late to realise  _ what  _ he was doing to stop it. It was like the line between them had begun to blur and Ed was  _ desperate _ not to let that happen, going from purposeful overdose to extensive research, but Riddler was relentless and, this one, it seemed like he would simply not stand down until he had gotten what he wanted. There were short stretches where he would fall quiet again, as if to give Ed a bit of a room to breathe, knowing damn well that if Ed were to die, he would take Riddler with him, but this knowledge was just one shade too close to realising that, clearly, there could not be one without the other. The more days were passing, the more it was ceasing to look like a fight against an intruder on the inside of his head, and it was beginning to awfully closely resemble a fight against  _ himself _ .

The possibility of this had been constantly running around in his head, bumping from the inner walls of his skull like a wounded animal desperately searching for a rescue, setting his brain back to fight-or-flight mode where the flight was no longer an option and he was simply far too tired to fight. All there was left for him to do was to put on a face and pretend that everything was in order, that there were no obstacles between him and getting to indulge in the life he had always wanted. He had become so occupied with putting up his badly written act that it had taken him until one unusually quiet evening and being in the wrong place at the wrong time--or was it the right place and the right time?--to realise that what he had thought to be a perfectly working machine had had sand thrown into its gears and now it was beginning to stutter, threatening to fall apart. Forty minutes before they were supposed to leave the Lounge to get in time to the restaurant they had a reservation at, Ed stepped down from the penthouse a floor higher, where he had been working on tweaking their schedules for the next week. He made his way towards Oswald’s office and that’s where he froze with his hand on the knob, hearing voices seeping from behind the door, each one of them resonating crystal clear in the silence of the empty club. “What?” Oswald snapped from the inside, an edge in his voice. “I think I’m missing something here, walk me through it again.”

“There’s nothing to really walk you through, boss,” Zsasz responded in his usually deadpan manner with just a smidge of amusement at the outline of his every word, and even god knew that Victor Zsasz taking pleasure in delivering news could only mean that they were  _ bad _ . “I’m just telling you what I and my staff have heard around. The word on the street is that you’ve gotten…  _ soft _ .”

Oswald scoffed loudly, a sharp pang signalling that he had put his cane down on the floor, likely to help himself get up from the place, his irritation tangible in the still air. “Soft!” he repeated, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, like the word tasted bitter on his tongue and couldn’t fit quite right in his mouth, like the meaning it carried offended him. “That’s what people are talking about me? That I’ve gotten  _ soft _ ?” he let out another sound of annoyance. “I’ll have you know that I have all of Gotham in the palm of my hand! Every judge, every attorney, every highest-ranking officer form every police department, every head of a gang that matters, they are  _ all _ on  _ my _ payroll! I control every organ of this city, I know about every deal that goes down, I authorise every crime that happens anywhere from Tricorner to Coral District, and people have the audacity-” His word cut off rapidly, recognising that the only thing he was doing was working himself up to the point of breaking and losing his temper, and in that very moment, it was far from ideal. “I want names, Victor. I want names, and I want their bodies hanging from the Clock Tower by tomorrow’s morning.”

Clicking his tongue, Ed could almost see Zsasz shifting the weight of his body from one leg to the other, thumbs hooking behind the belts of his holsters. “No can do, boss. It’s just gossip, I don’t have anything concrete. I don’t know  _ who _ I just know this is  _ what  _ people are saying. Look,” he insisted before Oswald had the chance to speak up again, “we both know why this is going on. You’ve been ruling Gotham like a true dictator and not having anyone influence your actions too much. Now that people are suddenly seeing you out in public and on the TV being…  _ very _ openly  _ lovey-dovey _ , of course they’re gonna think you’re not the same anymore. You might get away with it above and maybe even in the Narrows, but people from the  _ actual  _ underground won’t respect someone they don’t fear. They probably think you’ve lost your edge.”

Metal tip of his cane tapping against the floor, Oswald hissed out, so quietly the sound of it almost didn’t make it through the door. “Is that what you think, Victor?” he asked and there was venom in his words, like there were mere seconds between him holding to his composure and baring the blade hidden under the handle of his cane and plunging it into Zsasz’s eye. “Do you also think I’ve lost my  _ edge _ ?”

Taking an audible step back, Zsasz let out a short chuckle. “Boss, if I thought you’ve lost your edge, I wouldn’t be working for you anymore. I’m not exactly known for hanging out with the losing side. Come on, I have a reputation to uphold… and so do you,” he added after a pause. “Now, I’m not saying that you  _ should _ kill Nygma, mostly because I don’t want you to kill  _ me _ , but- I’m just saying, if you want to keep that throne of yours for longer, you’ve gotta do something to remind the criminals in this city that you’re not going to go easy on them just because you get to get laid every now and then.” He smacked his lips. “And I’m going to have to remember to send in someone to put locks in those doors because some things- some things you just  _ cannot _ unsee.”

With his heart pounding a fast-paced, head-splitting rhythm between his ears, Ed took a step back, suddenly feeling like there were dozens of hammers crushing all the alveoli in his lungs one by one, depriving him of oxygen and making his face turn blue. There was cold sweat gathering at his temples and above his upper lip as he spun around and walked away from the office as fast as he could without making a noise, pressing the folders with schedules up to his chest as he wandered off to one of the bathrooms. He locked the door behind and pressed his back up against it, sliding his glasses up on his forehead to press the heels of his hands against his closed eyes until he saw colourful stains bleed behind his shut lids. The very contours of the world around him seemed to glitch and tremble, like the illusion he had created for himself was beginning to wear off at the violent reminder of the cruelty of the life he had chosen, the fragile imitation of balance falling apart like a house of cards crumbling under a gust of wind creeping through a window somebody had recklessly left opened. For those past weeks, all this time Ed thought that he was excelling at his work, that he was making all the right choices, that he was contributing to Oswald’s status and increasing his power and bettering his influences. To now find out that, if anything, he was only undermining it felt like a punch to the gut strong enough to make him throw up and forget how to breathe, the possible consequences of this sending him to the brink of a panic attack strong enough to shut his whole system down. Oh- oh god, oh  _ no _ -

“Oh, pull yourself together,” Riddler grunted at him with seeming disinterest as he suddenly materialised himself standing with his hip against one of the marble washbin counters, looking at the nails of one of his hands as the familiar hum in Ed’s brain intensified. “Unless you’re planning on having a meltdown and letting me clean up your mess. In this case, hurry up because we definitely don’t have the time for your whining if we don’t want to be late with undoing all of… that.” 

A helpless half-groan, half-sob escaped Ed’s throat as he gave out a heavy sigh, seeing his other self acting as nonchalantly as always, but not failing to notice a certain tension in his identical features, like all of the muscles in his face stiffened under his skin, well aware of the severity of the situation. “Not now,” Ed whined in a tone close to a plea and only poorly imitating an order or a demand. “ _ Please _ just- just not now, I don’t have the time for all your drama and grievances right now.” He ran fingers through his hair absentmindedly, letting them curl and fall down onto his forehead, few strands getting behind his glasses and tickling at his eyelashes. “I- I need to do something. I need to figure something out, I- I know Oswald loves me, I  _ know _ , but I don’t think he loves me enough to give up his throne for me, and I don’t  _ want _ him to, he deserves it, but- Oh dear, I can’t do anything too subtle because half of those criminals don’t understand the message even it’s spelt out to them, but I can’t do anything too blunt either, or they’ll think Oswald is petty and grasping at the straws,” he muttered more to himself than to anyone else as he bit at his lip, pacing around the bathroom and rubbing his fingers together in distress. “Should I kill someone? I feel I should kill someone. Can I kill someone?”

Riddler scoffed as he put both of his hands down into his pockets, resting his head against the wall beside him as he glanced over at Ed with pity. “See, Ed,” he said as he tapped the heel of one of his shoes down against the black floor, the white and gold specks in the tiles making it seems almost as though they were talking on scattered galaxies, far away from earthly complications, “this is the problem. This is what’s the matter with you. You still think that you’re somehow better than the rest of the underworld, but we both know that it’s just another one of your delusions.  _ You  _ are the underdog here. Can you  _ kill  _ someone?” he repeated the question, so very clearly savouring the taste of it like it was making the inside of his mouth fizzle. “You already did.  _ One _ time. And it sent you into such a meltdown I could take the wheel for a few hours which, honestly, I wasn’t mad about. So, absolutely, you  _ can  _ kill someone. But you  _ won’t _ .” He grinned. “Admit it, Ed. You don’t have the guts for it. You don’t have what it takes to make something out of yourself on this scene. You don’t have the edge. You’re sinking, and you’re going to take Oswald down with you.”

It hurt. God, it still hurt to be berated and put down like this in the moments when he was at his most vulnerable, when he was already barely holding himself together and there was someone inside his head pushing his fingers between the stitched parts and tearing them open. “That’s all you’ve got?” he asked nevertheless, trying to play it off like he could no longer be bothered by the sharply-cut words thrown at him, like this tactic had been used on him so many times already that he had learned to grow a thicker skin and to not flinch at the cuts. “That’s all you’re going to say to me today? That’s all you’re going to bother me with? I’m just- I’m glad to know that my meds are working because you’re  _ clearly _ getting out of shape. They must be really affecting you because I know,  _ I know _ that you can do me much worse than to just tell me that I need to have an  _ edge _ . And you’re wrong even with that! I  _ do _ have an edge.”

Pushing himself away from the row of sinks and stepping closer to Ed, his dark brown eyes burning up feverishly, Riddler confirmed unexpectedly: “Yes, you do. It’s  _ me _ , dummy.  _ I _ am your edge!” he exclaimed as he spread his arms wide in a dramatic manner, curling his hands into fits and pointing his thumbs down at himself. “ _ I  _ am the only reason why you’re managing here! I have known you since you were five years old, I  _ know _ just as well as you do that you’re not cut out for this sort of life and that you’re lost here more often than not. And what do you do then? Hm? You try to be more like  _ me _ ! Every single time you suggest anything to Oswald, deep down you still consider what  _ I  _ would have done in your place. Hell, that’s the only reason you think you came up with the plan of getting rid of Figgis. Now you’re pumping yourself with drugs and what? Poof.” He moved his fingers right in front of Ed’s face, wiggling them for the effect. “Suddenly you don’t know what to do. If you were at least half as smart as you think you are, you would’ve already come up with something to have everyone back in line.” He smacked his own forehead as he shook his head, already angry and antsy and agitated and now only further working himself up, unable to stop once he had had himself going. “The solution is  _ right there _ ! People are forgetting how harsh Oswald is because they think that he’s relying on you too much--one way or another. We should just choose five the most influential crime families in Gotham, which is a  _ very  _ simple and obvious choice by the way, and-”

“-kill their chiefs of staff,” they finished the sentence together, their overlapping voices echoing through the inside of the empty bathroom, the sound bouncing off the walls only to come back and crash into them with a power that made them both vibrate. Riddler’s face dropped and darkened slowly, an inverted image of how Ed’s eyes brightened up and opened wider, the corners of his mouth quirking slightly as they stared at each other in bewilderment, agreeing on something for the first time in a long, long while. “Oh, dear-” Ed exhaled as he put his fingers against his temples, mouth agape. “Oh, this is- this is  _ brilliant _ ! How didn’t I come up with this before? It’s so simple!” He exhaled sharply. “People with that much money and on such a high position cannot be bothered to run their businesses by themselves, they rely on their assistants for  _ a lot _ of things! If we get rid of them, they’re going to be knocked off balance for  _ weeks _ , they’re going to lose profits, but the message will have been sent and they’ll be reminded not to mess with Penguin if they don’t want to suffer the consequences and- “

Riddler shook his head rapidly, putting his hand up and wagging his index finger like he was berating a misbehaving child or a disobedient dog as he watched Ed look through the folder he had forgotten about up until that very moment. “Wait. What are you doing?” he wanted to know, glancing down at the documents, skimming through the text quickly. “No. No!” He looked up. “You’re  _ not  _ going to pass this idea as your own! It’s mine! I was the one who came up with it, you can’t just-!” 

The plastic of the folder made a satisfying  _ splat _ as Ed slapped it closed, already turning around and reaching for the lock, opening the door and stepping outside, deaf to the insistent objections. “It wasn’t yours,” he said, not quite sure whether he was talking to Riddler or to himself, not even which one of them needed this convincing more, like the point he was trying to make did not quite hit its target but he so badly wanted to believe that it had. “You might’ve pointed me in the right direction, but we said it  _ together _ , so it wasn’t  _ yours _ .” That was the last thing he said to Riddler before he knocked at the door leading to Oswald’s office and walked inside, not waiting for an invitation, the smile on his face dimming down ever so slightly as he put the documents down on the desk, the neon umbrella decorating one of the walls shining bright blue light at their faces, deepening all the crooks and crannies of them and making all of their lines more prominent. “I heard you and Zsasz talk.”

His teeth immediately clenched between his tightly pressed lips, the knuckles of the hand wrapped around a glass of alcohol lightening at the change of pressure, the crystal of it giving a quiet, almost inaudible crack like it was only shyly announcing that it was at the point of breaking. “You did?” Oswald asked flatly, straightening up in his ridiculously lavish armchair and putting both of his feet down on the ground.

Ed nodded. “I did. And I know that some people are starting to talk that you’ve become soft because of me, and I’m not blaming you if you’ve considered killing me for the sake of keeping your throne because of it. But… I think I might have a better idea how to solve this, one that doesn’t involve me dying, thankfully.” He circled around the desk to rest right next to Oswald, sitting up on the desk in front of him and shifting slightly to the side to fully face him. “I think that you should choose a few gangs or families, ones that are important enough that it will send a strong message, but not important enough so it looks like you’re throwing a temper tantrum or spiralling out of control, and then- well, and then you kill their chiefs of staff. Listen!” he raised both of his hands up to the air, seeing that Oswald was already readying himself to object. “I know you think this is going to put a target on my back but it’s  _ not _ if you choose who to attack wisely, and I know you will. You know what makes the underground tick, you  _ know _ who to pick to make it out to be a show of your power instead of sabotage. And if you eliminate their chiefs of staff, you’re going to disrupt their business and it will cost them money and they will remember that the only reason they can get rich in this city is because  _ you _ allow it.” He stopped there for a moment, weighing his words carefully, wondering whether he really wanted to take this conversation in that direction, whether he really wanted to play that card. “I know you love me, Oswald. You wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.”

Sighing deeply, Oswald put his glass away and reached for Ed’s hand, taking it into his own and pulling him down into a kiss. “I do,” he admitted without batting an eye. “And I wouldn’t. I cannot lie, I’m not too fond of how this plan of yours sounds, but it’s definitely better than what Zsasz suggested. And you were right the last time, I don’t see why you should be wrong this time.” He stroked Ed’s cheek, looking at him with fondness. “I’ll call Victor, I’ll tell him to start organising his staff right away. I trust you, Eddie. You better be right.”

He did not realise.


	17. seventeen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Aleks but didn’t you say that you’d be uploading bi-weekly because of your work and university and other responsibilities you now have as an adult who has to take care of himself?” you might ask and the answer to it my friends is very short--I am simply ignoring all of my responsibilities for the sake of writing I have not revised any of my notes in a week and I have not yet chosen what to write my term papers about and I’m single again-. Listen if I’m being given the choice between spending two hours on reading texts about the cinema in 1900s or writing my fic then I am going to write my fic plain and simple. Besides the fact that a.) I am very sad and alone and thinking about giving up and b.) almost finished with this AU and also c.) already thinking about another one and I’m like a fucking magpie and I go batshit when I see something shiny are extra driving power. So. Enjoy and remember to leave me nice comments because I’m really starved for feedback this far into the story <3

He had made a mistake. 

Looking back at it from the perspective of a few excruciatingly long and slow-paced days, Ed couldn’t even begin to comprehend what sort of a surge of temporary insanity or a moment of intoxicating blindness had deluded him into believing that, somehow, his actions would not have consequences. If for a single delirious second he had thought that he would be able to simply carry on, unbothered, after he had close to blatantly stolen Riddler’s idea and presented it as his own, now he was being proven to be sorely mistaken. They had been together on the inside of the same brain, unable to walk away from each other in any sense of the phrase, for twenty-four years and counting, and through all this Ed had never experienced Riddler to be this inexhaustibly  _ angry _ . It was like being stuck in a tight, closed space with a wild animal breathing fire, clawing at the walls, and showing steel-capped teeth in its frenzied rage, where leaving it alone to cool down would only throw fuel into the insatiate flames burning in its iron guts. Behind Ed’s eyes and under his scalp it felt like there was a thin, slowly splintering membrane left between them, and Riddler was  _ relentless _ , like he had reached his limit at the long last and now he was frantically searching for the smallest crack or fissure he could press himself through and break free. He was no longer asking or bargaining or arguing--now he was threatening and demanding and taunting and it seemed like this time he would not simply go away and fall quiet like he so often used to. There was not a single second left in any hour of Ed’s days and nights that would not be filled with a high-pitched noise filling up his ears or a menacing silhouette looming somewhere at the rim of his vision, waiting for the smallest sign of a breakdown. Even when he somehow managed to fall asleep, his dreams were plagued by nearly paralysing stress and sickening fear that when he woke up the next morning, he would no longer be in charge of his body and his life would be ruined by the actions of someone else. 

In the light of the sheer severity of Riddler’s constant lashing out, out of pure desperation and against his better judgement Ed had decided to increase the dose of the meds he had been so adamantly taking for the past week, consequently putting himself in a state of a constant, mild overdose. By the time he had realised in just what a deplorable state he had willfully put himself in, it was already too late to turn back--whether it was placebo or not, the pills appeared to be his last resort of protecting himself against Riddler and withdrawal seemed like an even worse way to go. He was no longer able to sleep through the whole night without waking up every two or three hours completely drenched in sweat, his stomach rolled into a tight ball at all times refusing to take more than a few bites at a time, his head constantly pulsating with a headache so severe it was putting white spots in front of his vision. It happened on more than one occasion that he had found himself hunched over the toilet bowl, vomiting with his insides cramped almost to the point of snapping, all the while there was a pitiful chuckle ringing in his ears. But, somehow, with enough coffee to send an elephant into a heart attack and constantly nibbling on something to give his body enough calories to at least make it through the day, he was managing with barely anyone noticing, and only hearing it once or twice that he seemed tired. Normally, the most difficult part of it all would be to keep it out of Oswald’s sight as to not give him any reason to worry or become suspicious, but it was only by dumb luck that there were other things occupying his mind to such a great extend that they had not been talking to each other as often as usual.

The plan Ed had presented to Oswald as his own days ago had worked just as it was to be expected, but as the time had quickly shown, it worked far better than originally anticipated. At the end of the day, the goal was to fully restore the respect people of Gotham had owed to Penguin, as well as to reinstate the overall balance of the underworld--to remind everyone who was in charge and who the fate of ten million people had depended on. But before the weekend had come and gone, Gotham had not only returned to ticking like a brand-new pocket watch crafted by an artisan craftsman, but Oswald’s influences had broadened and dug even deeper into the pulsating flesh of the city. There were new people coming to seek employment at the Iceberg Lounge or one of the many smaller clubs sprouted in nearly every district, fiends, spies, and pickpocketers offering an abundance of information and sources, the heads of the gangs and the families who this far had stayed at a distance now coming to plead their loyalty and asking for consideration. It was almost like over the course of the past two years, Gotham had settled into a fairly-known and somewhat-comfortable routine, where they had forgotten that they were not free to do as they pleased, and they only needed to be reminded who they had been working under. However, the most surprising part of this ordeal was that Oswald had not been the only one whose status had skyrocketed since the swift assassination of the five carefully selected chiefs of staff working for the lesser crime lords of the city, no. It was not made a secret where the idea had come from, the news and the fact of Ed’s significance on the underworld’s scene as someone far more important and dangerous than just being Penguin’s arm candy spreading like wildfire. He was seen, he was known, and apparently, he was  _ feared _ .

Needless to say, Oswald was more than delighted at this turn of events, his eyes shining and his cheeks dimpling like he had gotten  _ exactly _ what he had wanted and then some, like all of this was nothing but a part of a grander plan he had schemed on his own. With this many more influences, with people coming and going with bits and pieces of information, and will all of his businesses flourishing and producing a myriad of profit he had been busier than ever before, barely having time to close his eyes at night before there was someone, somewhere, needing something. As much as he disliked being on his own, Ed had to admit in front of himself that this arrangement had benefited him while he so desperately had been trying to get his body’s tormented cries back under enough control so he would at least  _ look _ healthy. Of course, through all of this Oswald hadn’t once stopped with reminding Ed of his affection, sending flowers and gifts and little handwritten notes at least once a day, making sure that he still felt wanted even when there weren’t enough hours in a day for them to spend together on top of running an empire. But it was good--it was good to be loved and adored this way, to be constantly reassured of his importance and significance without having to ask for it; it felt so good that it had been the only thing giving Ed the driving power to get through the endless days filled with cold shivers, headaches, and an ominous presence tying knots into his muscles.

Seven days after they had formulated their strategy, followed through with it, and then began collecting its fruits was when Oswald had clearly decided that being the king of the criminal underworld could not be all work and no play. At barely quarter past noon, he marched into Ed’s office in one of his finest suits, grey with thin black stripes and a penguin pin shining on its lapel, a wide smile plastered to his face, eyes glimmering like burning coals in the dead of the night. “I’m taking you out for lunch,” he announced as he put his weight down against his cane, and the tone in which these words were spoken suggested that it was not an offer that could possibly be denied. “The car is already waiting.”

Ed looked up at him from where he was leaning against the desk, trying to make sense of the documents spread in front of him, the fine black letters floating on the blinding white of the paper, the words they were trying to form not making any sense at all. There were beads of sweat rolling down his temples and the curve of his neck to sink into the collar of his shirt, his fingers twitching and shaking slightly, grasping at the fountain pen as if it was the last thread connecting him to lucidity and if he let go of it, he would simply fall apart. “Lunch?” he asked confusedly as his gaze moved from Oswald’s delighted face down to the watch ticking on his wrist at a pace far slower than his high-strung heart beating an erratic rhythm against his ribs. “Oh, I- weren’t you supposed to be in the Narrows at noon? I thought you had a meeting scheduled-” he mutter, that last sentence more to himself than to anyone else as he reached for one of his binders to flip through the pages. He had finished making the schedules for that day late the previous night, there was a chance had he had missed some sort of a window that would allow them to have a meal and spend more than a few brief minutes together for the first time in a week. 

“It’s all settled already, Eddie, you don’t have to worry. I took care of it earlier than planned so I could take you out. We still didn’t have the time to properly celebrate  _ our _ victory, did we?” Oswald hummed as he limped closer, offering Ed his arm as he usually would when they were about to go somewhere on a date, emphasising that it was their time to be together--that it was for them to cherish now, because god in the Heavens only knew how many more of those they were still entitled to. This simple gesture carried a meaning behind if of such weight and importance that Ed simply could not oppose to, no matter how much rather he’d sink further down into his chair and wait for yet another anxiety attack to be over. He forced a smile on his lips as he curled his hand around Oswald’s extended forearm, gathering himself up to his feet and bracing for the journey out from where the house,  _ their  _ house was located, the white noise in his head glitching in protest. As difficult and downright painful as it was to push it all down, to stifle it and cut his fingers from trying to nip it at the bud, Ed put all the energy he had still left to try to relax against the soft seats of the car, to sit close next to Oswald and share slow kisses behind the darkened windows. 

The drive had taken as much time as it would have had to get from the Van Dhal mansion to the Iceberg Lounge and it had made just about as many turns, which only baffled Ed when he got out of the car only to see a completely different part of the Tricorner, their car parked on a curb between two iron street lamps. It was undoubtedly still a good area, with an abundance of bright shop windows either displaying costly commodities or offering various, slightly extravagant and just a tad pretentious services, all of lined up along the street, however, none of them seems like a place to serve food, which only added to the initial confusion. The most puzzling part, however, was that Oswald didn’t appear to care for anything the rich district had to offer, his interest focused on a seemingly empty and abandoned building, its windows hidden between barred roller shutters, the front door shut tightly with a thick padlock. He didn’t utter a single word as he pulled the key out of the pocket of his lavish coat, the sleeves and flaps of it dripping with dark gold and sun playing on its glittery surface with every shift of his muscles when the door gave out a satisfying  _ click _ before it fell open smoothly, not giving as much as a single squeak. Ed hesitated to move from where he was still standing with one of his hands at the car’s handle, a sense of unease suddenly sprouting out in his stomach as he gazed at the darkened interior looming in front of him like a bad omen, the suspiciousness of the situation making red flags and blaring alarms go off in his head, triggering his primal instinct to either fight or flight. But Oswald was standing right there at the threshold, reaching out towards him with close to nervous anticipation and such a soft, adoring glimmer in his eyes that Ed decided to throw the anxiety-ridden caution to the wind and step forward, see what was going on, and hopefully make a sense out of it.

For a brief moment, they were almost completely engulfed by the impenetrable darkness, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the naked walls and resonating through their bones as they walked out into a vast, empty space, the corners of the ceiling fading away into the barely diffused shadows. There was a long counter with shelves behind it plastered against one of the walls, at least two dozen dusty tables and twice as many crooked chairs all pushed away to make room in the middle of the hall, illuminated by the pale light speeding inside from the big skylight mounted into the roof. A staircase to the left lead up to the next floor and then to another one and another, each of the balconies fenced off with a fancy, metal railing, chandeliers hanging alternately with smaller, rounder bulbs but none of them was shining. Then, in the very centre of it, in the splotch of light falling from the cloudy sky high above, there was a table standing, set for two, with a bouquet of fresh flowers and two candles burning in the middle. “There are three floors for use,” Oswald announced as he walked further inside, making seemingly nonchalant gestures but even in the dimness of the room, it was still obvious that his fingers were trembling. “This one and then two above, and the last one to manage however you like. There’s even a kitchen over there, and the storage is in the basement underneath. It…” he scoffed out a chuckle, “it does look like it’s in a pretty rough shape, but it’s nothing a bit of money, four dozen people, and a few days won’t fix. The walls are built solid, and it is a very good location, all things considered. You could think of it as a blank canvas, so to say.”

Raising his eyebrows with confusion, but the worried pace of his heart quickly slowing down, Ed took a step towards, looking around the hall and trying to make out in god’s name Oswald decided that this would be an interesting spot for lunch? Was he feeling like their relationship was beginning to run out of its initial magic, and was now trying to spice things up between them, so to say? Weren’t these past day as exciting as one could wish, and then some? “I… I, uh, I can definitely see the potential of this place and the profits it could bring if it was in the right hands, yes,” he agreed simply, deciding that it was the safest option as well as the easiest way of asking for a further explanation, his eyes raising up to the dirty glass in the ceiling, the dispersed sunbeams hurting his eyes. “If you have plans for it, then it does seem like a good investment--if you’re asking me for my opinion as your chief of staff and personal advisor.”

Oswald grinned, the skin around his green-blue eyes crinkling, creased dips appearing in his pointed cheeks. “You could say that I am, yes,” he nodded as he spread his arms wide, gesturing with his cane around before putting it back down with a loud  _ bang _ and resting both of his hands on top of it. “I am…  _ very _ glad that you like it, because it’s for you. This… this is going to be your club, Eddie.”

Something about those words and the meaning they held didn’t quite make sense in Ed’s head, like the letters of them were out of their usual shape and their sound was distorted beyond recognition, their edges not fitting right into the slots they should easily click into. Ever since the beginning of their relationship, back when no rules had been settled down and no expectations of deeper feelings appearing, Oswald had never been the one to skip or hold back on gift-giving--no, he was absolutely thriving on it and bringing it to an excess, as if he did not know in what other way to express his fondness. He had been showering Ed with clothes, shoes, perfumes, books, puzzles, laboratory equipment, jewellery, food, and alcohol for  _ months  _ but this… this was something different, something more serious, something more profound, something more meaningful even than the ring always shining on one of Ed’s fingers. This was a promise of a commitment, almost like a proposal, but Ed didn’t want to jump into conclusion so hastily, he could be very easily misinterpreting the significance of the gesture. “I- Oswald, I-” he stammered, unable to form a question, not quite sure  _ what _ he should be asking about. “This is- I mean, I  _ am _ flattered but- but, why? I’ve never- I’ve never managed a club, and you’ve already got dozens of them, I-”

There was a pause, a long stretch of silence and stillness when it seemed like everything around them had stopped, and only specks of dust still danced in the sunbeams crossing the space between them and spilling at their feet like liquid gold. “My mother-” Oswald finally began and his voice stammered immediately, the mere mention of Gertrud Kapelput making a flash of pain cross his face even after all those years, like this wound had never quite healed over and he knew it never would. “My mother, my- my  _ real  _ mother, bless her soul, she… she used to tell me, “life only gives you one true love, Oswald, so when you find it--run to it. And I-” he stepped in close, taking Ed’s hand into his own and pressing a kiss to his fingers. “And I can’t imagine my life without you anymore. I want you to run this city  _ with _ me. You’re the love of my life, Edward Nygma.”

It was like all of Ed’s brain functions shut off all at once as soon as those words hit his ears, his heart stopping in its efforts to pump blood through his exhausted system, his lungs stilling for full five seconds in awe, as if every single cell had to stop in all their processes to be able to fully comprehend what he had just heard. Oswald C. Cobblepot had been hurt so many different times by so many different people, and each one of his heartbreaks had been used as a tool of public humiliation, all papers and news stations pouring salt into the cuts and dragging him through the mud, yet there they were. Despite being betrayed so many times and having to carry the burdens many would long snap and collapse under, there he was--willingly cutting out a slice of the empire he had so tirelessly worked to build, for him, for  _ Ed _ . And Ed didn’t know how to react, he didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what to  _ do _ . After a lifetime of being disregarded and ridiculed and bashed, he still oftentimes struggled to believe that there was someone who had feelings for him for who he was, the grandness of the gesture making him breathless. “ _ Oh _ -” he simply managed to let out as he took a look around one more time, his fingers tightening around Oswald, his throat suddenly swelling. “I- I love you, Oswald.”

A happy, truly and genuinely happy smile appeared on Oswald’s face, making all of his being shine brighter than the sun above them. “I love you too, Eddie,” he hummed, and those words were like the sweetest music Ed could ever hear, his chest about to explode from excitement, warmth spreading from the roots of his hair to the very tips of his fingers when he was pulled down by his tie into a soft kiss. “Shall I take it as a yes, then?” Oswald wanted to know, pinching Ed’s chin between his thumb and index finger. “You will run this club? With full creative and artistic freedom, of course.”

“I- yes. Yes, obviously. But I  _ did _ mean it when I told you I’ve never run a club before, and helping you at the Lounge doesn’t count--at this point that place pretty much manages itself. You’d have to be insane to do something Penguin wouldn’t like when you’re in Penguin’s liar,” Ed chuckled a bit nervously as he bit on his lip, taking the whole place in again, searching his mind for a sliver of an idea how he could renovate and restore it, what kind of theme would make it  _ truly _ his. Just as he felt something spark in his head, a vague vision of what he could turn this ruined venue into, the low humming at the back of his head shifted into snowing, crackling static like his brain had suddenly turned into an old TV struggling to pick up on a signal. It was so loud it almost made him sick, swarms of erratically moving flies filling up his ears and trying to crawl deeper into the canal, distract him from what was happening and make him lose his focus. “I’m going to have to think about it,” he mumbled as he rubbed at his forehead and shook his head slightly, even though he knew that it was pointless and that he couldn’t get rid of something that was coming from the inside. Suddenly, something was missing. Something had disappeared and left behind a gaping hole giving out only phantoms of the lost sensation like an amputated limb aching despite years having had gone by. Slowly, very slowly Ed realised that he could no longer feel nor sense Riddler’s rage, the conflagration of it turning cold, crystals of ice spreading through Ed’s vines and sinking into his muscles until he was paralysed. Riddler wasn’t angry anymore. He was  _ furious _ .

But there was no time for him to stop and fully realise the horror of what had just happened and the extent of the consequences it was going to bring soon,  _ very _ soon, because Oswald’s slim hand was settling into his own, fitting in it like a glove, thumb stroking over soft skin. “There is not the faintest shade of doubt in my head that whatever you decide to do about this place it’s going to be brilliant, my love,” he said sweetly, adoringly. “I have a whole team of workers just waiting for a call to come in here and start whatever renovations you wish. And the budget for them is as big as you want it to be. Do with this place whatever you please. Now, let’s have lunch, shall we?” he asked, gesturing over at the table with burning candles standing in the middle of the empty club, so clearly waiting for them. “I don’t want the food to get cold.”

Nodding, Ed simply followed Oswald and settled down at one of the chairs to try his best to enjoy their meal, but he still couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that he was being watched, that as passive as Riddler would usually stay without manifesting himself, now he was very much aware, observing everything actively. Deep in the marrow of his bones, Ed knew that there was nothing Riddler would rather do than to try to get behind the steering wheel right, to take control once and for all now when there was the perspective of having a sliver of the city just to himself. He was  _ buzzing _ with impatience and it was not mercy but seeing a bigger picture that was stopping him from appearing out of the thin air, leaning against the back of the chair, and whispering poison into Ed’s ear. Although he remained nothing but a part of Ed’s mind, he was  _ there _ .

He was waiting for the right moment.


	18. eighteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ!  
> The plot thickens,,, hi it’s me again! This time I’m coming to you with an important announcement in the notes for a change,,, seeing how fragile my mental health is and how my fanfics are the only last thing that’s still keeping me sane I’ve decided that I WILL be writing another AU after this one! Due to that the upload schedule of chapters is going to be a little different and please bear in mind that it still might change if I don’t manage to write these in time but for now I hope that it’s going to look something like this:  
> chapter 19--next week (somewhere between 4th and 8th I cannot give you an exact date because I am SPEEDING with writing)   
> chapter 20 & 21--two weeks later (anytime between 14th [it’s my birthday so it would be my gift to you for my 20th lmao] 21st because again--I am SPEED)  
> chapter 1 of the new AU--same as above  
> Honestly? With how much I’m blatantly IGNORING all of my responsibilities for the sake of writing this story and thinking about the new AU I can’t tell you for SURE when the uploads will be so perhaps just bookmark it/subscribe to the story/follow me on Twitter @alekstraordinar! Hope you’ll stick around until the end and I’ll be able to bribe you into reading the upcoming AU too!

It was beginning to crumble.

Since their unexpected afternoon visit at an abandoned building in the middle of Tricorner, truly milestone conversation, and candid confession three days ago, Ed had already come up with an idea as to how to entirely restore the ruined bar, drawn up a detailed plan, and ordered the start of the works. Although he had never done this sort of thing before, having the brilliant model of the Iceberg Lounge to take the example of and being accustomed to the rules of the underworld had made the decision-making process vastly easier, the entire project coming to him as a welcome distraction when he had most needed it. Oswald had not exaggerated when he had said that there had been a whole team of people already employed and just waiting to be instructed to proceed with the renovations, and neither had he joked saying that the budget was endless, all the choices regarding the new club left entirely up to Ed. Not once had he questioned the selection of the materials to be used for the furniture and panelling or the colour palette to go with the theme, listening patiently to the excited, almost feverish babbling Ed had been breaking out into completely unprompted. He would just nod, indescribably tenderness in his eyes as he cocked his head to the side, looking at Ed like he had hung the stars on the black sky behind their bedroom’s windows, listening as if there was not a single thing in the whole wide world of more importance than deciding which shade of green would be best suitable for the tablecloth. Because they both understood--they hadn’t spoken of the words exchanged under the dirty skylight since they had dissolved into the dusty air around them, but they both understood it better and more deeply than either one of them could ever express in speech. They understood the significance of it to the fullest extent, that it wasn’t just a wise investment or a strategical move, it wasn’t just a club--it was a proof of their love and as such, Ed simply had to make it  _ perfect _ . 

Although he was fully aware that there was no such thing as objective perfection, he still wanted to bring the bar as close to that point as it was possible--he wanted it to be a beacon, something tangible and something real, something that, perhaps, he wanted to use to make a statement. There was no question about the fact that Oswald had made him feel good and at more peace than he had ever known before, but despite all of that, sometimes there were moments when Ed still didn’t feel quite right. It was like he was sticking out like a sore thumb no matter how much he was trying to bend himself out of shape, like he was too big and awkward, too misshapen to fit into all the nooks and crannies he wanted to fill out and make himself at home in. He knew that he was in the right place and that the criminal world was where he had always been meant to be, yet he still struggled with shaking off the sensation that he didn’t belong and he was growing impatient to finally get rid of it. Over the course of the past months, he had gone from being stuck in an endless, smouldering loop of misery and alienation to being loved and adored, a flame burning bright in his chest as he was learning--perhaps for the first time in his life--how to be truly alive. And perhaps it was that need to show the change he had gone through that had made him so fixated on turning the bar he had been gifted into something bigger, larger, grander, like after years of being overlooked and disregarded, now he wanted to have everyone’s eyes on him. He wanted to prove to others, to himself, and most importantly--to Oswald, that he was right where he was supposed to be.

It was rooted deep inside him to focus so greatly on whatever had caught his attention the latest, his brain hardwired and programmed to let the newer obsessions occupy most of its capacity, blurring and tuning out everything else. He had been so adamant in his works, consumed by the idea of making a point in this city that he had barely even noticed when the physical sickness and discomfort he had put himself in through the use of drugs had turned from erratic and violent cries of protest into thick, heavy exhaustion sticking to his skin like tar. At that point, he had hardly slept at night anymore, kept awake either by the poisoned blood flowing through his darkened veins or the tweaks and adjustments he could make to his plans every five minutes, and insistent impression flaming up between his temples that if he were to stop moving, he would simply die. Yet through all of this, he was tired, he was so very tired he felt as though his muscles were all worn out and his bones were corroding and his synapses were dimming out, every fibre of his being growing tired of the constant strain and fight. And the worst, the most infuriating, and possibly the most difficult part of this internal torment was that Riddler had been awfully, uncharacteristically quiet through all of it, not even as much as saying a single word or manifesting himself somewhere just out of the field of view. But the subdued buzz of his presence hummed just at the back of Ed’s head, uninterrupted, like it had for the past twenty-odd years and it was its changed, cold frequency that unsettled him, kept him tensed and at the edge of his seat for  _ days _ . It worried him more than any of Riddler’s behaviours had ever before, the cold fury crawling underneath his skin and settling in all the creases it could find, increasing his anxiety way past the tipping point and making all of his insides recoil. Ed longed, god, he longed for the way they had been before that one fateful night that started all of this, and he would love for nothing more than just to go back, but he was all too aware that they were already way past the point of conversation.

There he was now--with a splitting headache and sweaty palms, seated by the newly replaced counter with a black mahogany top as he hunched over one of his notebooks covered in notes, plans, and calculations, trying to breathe through yet another anxiety attack. His hands were trembling slightly where he had them balled into fists and pressed against his closed eyes, pressing down slightly to relieve some of the tension, his glasses slid all the way to the top of his head where they go tangled in his unruly, curly hair. It was the early evening after a day’s worth of renovations had been finished, the bar now completely empty, spare for him and a small orange bottle to accompany him during yet another revision of the next step of the repairs. Normally, once all the workers had already left, he would go back home and wait there for Oswald to be done with his duties, perhaps even send the housekeeper away for the sake of cooking dinner himself, but tonight was an exception. Oswald had to attend a meeting with one of the major crime families of Gotham, and as such he would be out well into the night, so he had planned to swing by Ed’s club briefly, just to see him before he was off again. Besides, despite giving Ed all the creative freedom and listening to his rants spanning over hours, he still seemed to be curious about how all of the ideas, plans, and choices translated to reality. Frankly, Ed would rather have Oswald wait until the club had been finished, and only then present it to him before the grand opening, but that wish had been quickly overpowered by the perspective of seeing him and, perhaps, hearing a few words of praise. Ed was so starved for it, in fact, desperate for a shred of comfort that his heart gave out an excited, tight squeeze the very second he heard the front door of the building peering open, the creak of it echoing through the mostly empty hall. 

Sharp knocking of his cane against the freshly tiled floor accompanying his arrival, Oswald emerged from behind the curtain separating the entrance corridor from the main hall of the club, brows raised and eyes wide open as he looked around, taking in the surroundings, Zsasz following closely behind. “I have got to say,” he announced as he limped over to the counter with a wide smile on his freckled face, tapping two of his fingers against the wooden top and nodding approvingly. “You are truly outdoing yourself here, Eddie. You have told me about every single thing you were planning on doing here, and yet I’m still- well, blown away! You really excel at everything you do, don’t you?”

Ed’s cheeks immediately flushed upon hearing the low, nearly purring praise, the vibration of it sending a shiver down his spine as heat raised in his face, creeping up his body like a faint, yet pleasant reminder that he wasn’t dead yet, and that perhaps there was still some fight left in him after all. “Oh, well-” he muttered as he fumbled with his notebook, thumbing through the pages as he did his best to keep his eyes as far away from Oswald’s fingerless gloves and his own mind out of the gutter as it was possible. “I’m not that sure about  _ everything _ , well, at least not right away, there definitely has to be a bit of a learning curve, but I did have a great example to look up to,” he blurted out a nonsensical series of words as he slid off the stool he had been seated at, coming in to press a quick kiss to Oswald’s lips before squeezing his shoulder. “So?” he asked, making an uncertain gesture towards the closed space of the bar, the designated chairs, tables, and booths still piling up in an unstable pyramid by one of the walls, two others illuminated by construction lights, the fourth one almost entirely covered in shelves that would soon be filled with all kinds of alcohol. “Any other thoughts? I, uh, I know it’s still far from being ready, I told you apparently there was some mould the workers had to take care of before they could tile the floors but I think it’s moving pretty fast, all things considered. If everything goes according to the plan, it should be ready for the opening this weekend.”

Pulling himself onto one of the stools, Oswald gave an amused chuckle. “I think that if I’m already impressed by the state of things when they’re half-finished, I can’t even begin to imagine what sort of masterpiece you’re going to create here by the time it’s done, my love,” he said candidly and with that spark in his eye, something about the new-found term of endearment making Ed’s heartstrings tug and his guts stir. “I think the colours and the decor you’ve picked are really going to go well with the architecture of this building. But, you know, Eddie, half of the success is usually in the name and the signature.” He pointed at the little umbrella embroidered into the sleeve of his pristine black shirt, the symbol inseparably tied with him since before he had been anyone in this city, the mere sight of it reminding everyone who Gotham truly belonged to. “Remember that we have to print cards and invitations before the opening night, too. We want to make this club  _ exclusive _ after all, don’t we?” 

“Yes, I just I, um-” Ed muttered as he scratched at his temple, suddenly embarrassed. Had it been only two of them, he would simply lay his idea out without the fear of judgement, but there was something mildly distressing about Zsasz’s presence, like he knew that he was important enough to allow himself a mocking chuckle or a snarky remark every now and then. “I’ve been thinking about this and how you’ve named your club and I- came to the conclusion that I don’t have a persona like you do, there is no nickname anyone knows me under and I’m nowhere as imaginative as you are so I thought I’d just take something I like instead, and-” he cut off and just put his notebook down, opening it on the right page so Oswald could take a look at the crooked sketch with poor lettering he had put there, the previous ten pages covered in scratched scribbles. 

Wordlessly, but with a curious look on his face, Oswald leaned in, his eyes scanning the black ink on lined paper before he looked up, eyebrow cocked. “ _The_ _Puzzle Palace_?” he read the words out loud, like he had to check whether he liked their taste, if they fit right in his mouth, rolled off the tongue in a manner pleasant enough to grant his blessing. “It has a nice ring to it,” he finally smirked, picking up the notebook to get a better look at the sketch. “And it definitely suits you, with your riddles and all. I like it. I really, really like it. I’m going to have to set you up an appointment with someone who can take it and put it on cards, windows, and menus first thing in the morning, so you should clear your schedule for the early afternoon. I want everything to work like clockwork for your big day. And then,” he said, getting up from the barstool and grabbing at the lapel of Ed’s suit, tugging at it gently to bring him in closer, his head tilted back to look Ed straight in the eyes, “it’s going to be just the two of us on top of this entire city.”

It was supposed to sound sensual, like yet another one of the many promises Oswald would so often whisper against Ed’s skin either in the privacy of their bedroom or their offices to then follow through with them and make them a reality, but this time there was an undeniable sadness lingering just at the tips of his words. The work in progress on this club so far had been a good excuse for both of them to distract themselves from things heavying on their shoulders, pretending that their backs weren’t cracking at the verge of snapping from carrying all this weight. Ever since Fish had made her final decision, packed her many bags, and got onto a train out of Gotham, Oswald hadn’t been himself, always a little bit sad, and always a little bit lost like a child losing his mother in a grocery store, like despite being an adult he couldn’t quite comprehend why he was left behind like an orphan. It hurt to see him like that, no matter with how much more ease about their relationship Ed had breathed since Fish had gone away, knowing that she had never quite liked him and she had always had one of her different-coloured eyes on him. Oswald was putting up a face, but after countless days and hours spent together and getting to know each other so intimately, Ed had learned how to look through the cracks of it. “I know,” Ed just hummed as he cupped Oswald’s face, running his fingers over the sharp edges of his jaw, Zsasz making a displeased face and a soft grunt somewhere in the background. “But… Oz, are you alright? Do you really  _ have _ to go to that meeting tonight? Wouldn’t you rather… spend the evening with me?”

Oswald exhaled sharply, only one shade away from a scoff. “You know I would very much rather stay with you,” he assured as he covered Ed’s hands with his own and gently pulled them off of his face, pressing his lips to the knuckles in the process. “But I’m fine, Eddie, and I have to go.” He raised up to the tips of his toes to give Ed one last kiss before clearing his throat and straightening his suit jacket. “Don’t wait up for me, I’m probably going to be back around sunrise. I’ll have Wendell come to escort you back home soon, just in case.” He smiled, reassuringly. “I love you, Eddie.”

“I love you, too,” Ed muttered quietly, and then Oswald was already gone, the emerald curtain trembling behind him for a moment with the faint memory before stilling completely, unbothered. Ed’s shoulders immediately slumped as he ran a hand through his messy hair, sitting down heavily with a certain tightness to his chest and a bitter taste in his mouth, pooling at the back of his throat like bile. There had been…  _ so many _ people in the past who had played with Oswald’s heart, betrayed his trust, and beat him down until he was broken to the point of pity, his back permanently covered in scars of the knives he had had lodged there, it made Ed sick to the pit of his stomach that, objectively speaking, he was one of them. Initially, he had thought that it would be better for everyone if he had just kept Riddler a secret, and that maybe if he had believed in hard enough, the inside of his brain would belong to only him once again, but that had quickly turned out to not be the case at all and now it was simply too late. And Ed was… he was so,  _ so  _ tired of the constant buzzing in his ears and tension in his neck and a sense of dread on his shoulders, living in the alerted state of anxiety like something terrible was about to happen at all times, no matter the circumstances. There was a ticking bomb in his head and its timer was running out of time--a feeling that had only intensified as he heard the white noise intensify, the all-too-familiar figure appearing on the stool next to him out of the thin air, legs crossed and both elbows resting on the counter behind him.

Sucking at his teeth, Riddler lulled his head to the side to look at Ed with one of his eyebrows elevated, and ugly, sickly amused smirk cartoonishly stretching his already too-angular face, too many dips and angles in it, something that had always made him look just a little bit wrong. “ _ The Puzzle Palace _ ?” he mused, chuckling. “I could come up with something more interesting, but it’s not too bad either, I can give you that.” He then looked up at the skylight high above them, the moon peeking inside as if it was curious of what events were about to happen in the ruined bar. “Making a name for yourself in Gotham, aren’t we, Eddie? Funny, that’s  _ exactly _ what I’ve been telling you we could’ve done months ago. So I was right, it really makes you wonder what  _ else _ I was right about, huh?”

With an exhausted sigh, Ed hid his head between his arms, putting his feverish forehead down against the cool wooden surface in the hopes of getting some relief, his limbs made out of lead and pulling him down to the ground like it was about to break in on himself. “Go away,” he just groaned half-heartedly, curling his fists in his hair and pulling at it to ground himself in the moment. “Haven’t you have enough at this point? Why can’t you- why can’t you just  _ give up _ , Rid? Oswald loves _ me _ , he’s not going to love  _ you _ even if I let you be in charge. I’m- he called me the love of his life, don’t you understand? You’ve  _ lost _ , there’s  _ nothing _ for you to fight for. You can’t even make him hate me out of spite, because then you know he’s really only going to hate  _ you _ .”

Riddler scrunched his face for a moment but it was nothing but ridicule, nothing but relentless mocking. “First of all, what makes you  _ think _ that I’m going to pretend to be  _ you _ when I get the wheel? You’re  _ pathetic _ , Ed, and I’m much more interesting than you are, I wouldn’t  _ humiliate _ myself by pretending to be you no, and- Oswald loves you?” he laughed like he had just heard a poor joke, one that could only earn a pitiful scoff. “See, now  _ that’s _ interesting. As far as I remember, at first, he was just keeping you around as a pretty thing to put his eyes and his hands on from time to time. You know, like a boy toy. Even Fish said that he needed to have someone admire him, that was why she started, eh,” he made a vague gesture with his hand, “moderately tolerating you. And when did he fall in love with you, Ed? Hm? When you grew some balls. When you started to act more like  _ me _ \--when  _ you _ realised that  _ I  _ was more suitable for him, not  _ you _ . Why do you even think he’s given you this club, a part of his own empire? Because you impressed him with  _ my _ idea.” Riddler straightened up in his seat, leaning over the counter to almost force Ed to look up at him, a fire burning in his dark eyes. “He doesn’t love  _ you _ , Ed. He loves a version of you you’ve created based on me, he loves a lie. You know it as well as I do that he would  _ never _ love you and he would  _ never _ as much as consider you to be a suitable partner in crime if it weren’t for me. If it weren’t for me, you would still be working at the G.C.P.D., completely invisible to everyone, making puppy eyes at a woman who would never love you back.” 

“Shut up,” Ed said weakly as he waved his hand dismissively, like he was trying to chase away a fly buzzing in his ears, Riddler’s voice beginning to resemble the flutter of a mosquito’s wings instead of speech and equally as irritating. “Shut  _ up _ , you’re wrong. You’re wrong, and you know you are. You’re just- you’re just trying to knock me off my game so you can take over, ugh-” he let out a pained hiss as he pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. The world was beginning to blur before his eyes as there was tingling in his fingers and toes, like there was not enough blood flowing to and from them and now he was becoming numb. “Oswald loves me for  _ me _ . And I’d be an excellent chief of staff even without you. You’re not the only smart one, you’re not- god, just get out of my head!” 

Getting up from his seat, Riddler shook his head. “No,” he said simply as he straightened his suit jacket, flicking an imaginary speck of dust off the cuff of his black shirt. “Your time is up, Ed,” was the last thing he heard before he suddenly felt light-headed, his body becoming very heavy and his vision becoming blurry before dissolving into darkness. 

When he had come back to, the first thing he had noticed was a violent, throbbing headache akin to the one one might get after an eventful night filled with excessive drinking and reckless use of drugs, his tongue feeling like a piece of sandpaper pressed to the parched roof of his mouth. It was like waking up from a hazy, uncomfortable sleep filled with nightmares, leaving you drenched in a cold sweat and even more exhausted than before closing your eyes, the very matter of time and space appearing imbalanced. There was a mouldy staleness to the air, making him certain that he was definitely not in his bedroom, but when he tried looking his eyes, the sun shining inside through a crack in the curtains almost blinded him, putting red stains under his screwed lids. Rubbing a hand over his face to try to catch his breath, he tried opening his eyes once again, the blurred counters of the world around him completely foreign, but his glasses were nowhere to be sound. His entire body felt heavy when he forced himself to get up, brass running through his veins, his skin clad in iron, his head full of steel as he blindly managed to locate a washbin and a mirror mounted into one of the walls, as if inviting him to take a look. Although he could not see properly, his heart clenched painfully as he saw the emerald green of the suit he was wearing, his hair combed back and covered in a ridiculous amount of gel, a shade of stubble darkening his chin like he hadn’t gotten the chance to shave for a few days. 

He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know what he was doing here, he didn’t even know what  _ day _ it was, but before he had had the chance to investigate, to at least scour the bed or the ground around it for his glasses, there was suddenly loud, impatient banging at the door right next to him. “Come on now, Ed, I know you’re in there. It’s not funny anymore,” he could hear Zsasz’s voice coming from the outside, his tone completely unidentifiable. “Boss is pissed. Don’t do anything stupid, just let me take you to him and nobody has to get hurt alright?” he asked, tapping, against the door again, this time more softly, as a single, mortifying thought appeared in Ed’s head: Riddler had done something irreparable. 

He was a goner. 


	19. nineteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ!
> 
> Hi it's me again! So. Quite an intense moment we're going to leave on today and as I've mentioned in my previous note this is y'all are going to get for the next,,, well anywhere between seven and fourteen days I think. The reasons are as following:  
> a.) I have to write chapter 20 and chapter 21 as I want to upload them on the same day (I'm already working on it!)  
> b.) I also have to write the first chapter of my new AU which I also want to go up on the very same day  
> on top of that I'm currently working on my university assignments because the deadlines are coming so I'm. probably going to need more time but how much? I don't know. I write this instead od the essays lol.   
> I'm already sort of emotional writing this because it's the last author's note before the end but,,, well let's keep all the thanks and the farewells for the next update shall we? Anyway I hope y'all understand the longer upload break now as well as that you'll stick around to see how this story ends AND check out how the new one begins! ;) Besides ha ha it's my 20th birthday next Saturday so I'm probably going to spend the entire day in bed crying because I can't see anyone due to COVID restrictions so who knows I might as well fuck around and write 5k words in one go <3 lmao either way I hope you'll enjoy this one and I'll see you at the end of the road! Take care! <3

He was as good as dead.

Although the night when they had first met had only taken place shy of a year ago, it seemed like a distant past, so far away from the heated inside of the car where the sunlight was barely making it through the darkened windows, that it could as very well be a part of some slightly distorted alternative reality or a feverish dream dreamt under the influence and a slowly spinning ceiling fan. When he had come back to his senses in the Iceberg Lounge all those months ago, not even in his wildest and boldest fantasies had he imagined the course his life would later take, with all of its unexpected changes, unsafe sacrifices, and undeniable improvements. Over the course of fewer than twelve months, he and everything about him had altered but it was not a matter as much of a transformation as finally having enough space around him and air in his lungs to put out in the world what he had always been struggling to keep on the inside. There was no question about the fact that he had owed most--if not all--of it to Oswald, the one person in all of Gotham City who had let all of his best parts shine brighter and teach to embrace the ugly ones without apology. Whether it was a matter of fate as he liked to believe or not, Ed and Oswald had gone from being complete strangers, to an employer and an employee, to a pretty thing and his sugar daddy, to lovers at last and, perhaps, it would have had been the true, unbreakable kind of love everyone secretly dreams about if Ed had not lied about a crucial part of himself throughout it all. For some time already, he had been starting to think that the night he had found himself in the Lounge had been a second chance in this city for him--an opportunity to become someone he had thought he had always been meant to be but now his mind was changed. That night was nothing but the beginning of an especially painful end. 

Every time he had spoken to Oswald for the past forty-eight weeks, no matter whether it was over a dead body to examine, a stack of documents to work their way through, a dinner shared in one of the booths of the club, or the privacy of their bedroom, Ed had had a chance to talk to him about Riddler, even if just to warn him, and he had simply chosen… not to. And there were a whole plethora of reasons he had been repeating to himself constantly in order to justify his actions in front of himself--that he didn’t know for sure what Riddler’s opinion on Oswald truly was, or that he decided that he didn’t like it no matter what it was, or that he feared Oswald’s reaction, or that he simply didn’t know how to. His social skills had never been particularly good to begin with, he had always struggled with expressing himself verbally, and even if he had been decided on saying the truth about Riddler, he probably would have had burst into a puzzle and made an even bigger fool of himself. But, in the end, no matter what the true motivation behind this rather poor decision had been, at the end of the day, it had been  _ his _ choice and it was  _ his _ fault that he had found himself in this position now--sitting quietly on the backseat while the wheels rolled across the cold streets of Gotham. Oswald loved him. He knew that, he knew  _ for a fact _ that Oswald loved him, and he loved him truly and deeply, that he had meant it when he had called him the love of his life, but even for such a profound kind of love there were some things that simply could not be forgiven. There were very few of them that Oswald would not look away from, some things that would make the stitches holding the wounds on his back together snap and have him come apart at the seams like a mistreated rag doll, and there was not a shade of doubt in Ed’s mind that Riddler knew  _ exactly _ what those things were. 

Judging by the physical state Ed was in--the two missing buttons from his waistcoat, the shade of stubble there was no time to shave off, the faint aftertaste of blood in his mouth--it was clear that Riddler had done  _ something _ , and whatever it was, it was grand scandalous enough to have Penguin’s lover get tattered up. He had always been dramatic and over the top, and if he were to use his time behind the steering wheel to ruin everything Ed had been building for the past eleven months, he would most certainly do it with a  _ bang _ . Of course, there still remained the fact of the feelings Riddler was holding for Oswald, something that had completely slipped Ed’s mind in the beginning, but then the closer he had examined them, the more he had realised that it was the sort of splitting and desperate longing for something just out of one’s reach that would make even the sanest man lose his mind. As much as there was no doubt about Oswald loving Ed, there seemed to also be no question about Riddler falling for Oswald, as if a stray speck of pollen from the flowers growing in Ed’s chest had found its way into Riddler’s lungs and then kept growing and blossoming and spreading until he could barely breathe. In his own twisted mind, he had somehow driven himself to the point where he had believed that he had some sort of a right to Oswald’s love, like it wasn’t fair, like Oswald would have had never chosen Ed if he had now that Riddler had been there all this time. He wanted Oswald to love him, but he couldn’t make it happen, so he decided to ruin it. The lovesick torment had only made him an even more of a spiteful and proud creature thriving on chaos and a forged sense of superiority--he knew he couldn’t have Oswald, so he was going to make sure that Ed couldn’t have him either.

That was exactly why now Ed was stuck on a leather seat still faintly smelling of expensive alcohol, right next to uncharacteristically quiet Zsasz, the silence between them thick and sticking to their skin, mudding their eyes, and clogging their ears to the point of ringing. It wasn’t just the two of them there, awaiting what appeared to be the inevitable demise looming just at the line of the horizon where an orange sun was slowly setting behind the buildings of Gotham, no--Riddler was there with them. He was right there, at the very verge between Ed’s conscious and subconscious, the buzzing of his presence filling up all the empty spaces between heartbeats and breaths, shoving themselves even between the circuits and sizzling of synapses. But he was quiet, not uttering a single word despite the internal pleas and begging for a shred of explanation, not even bothering himself with manifesting and gloating in person, instead choosing to stay back in the shadows and watch everything happen from behind the curtains. All there was left for Ed to do was to sit with his heart hammering at a pace that should not be physically possible to achieve, scratching a hole into one of the armrests in an anxious habit of busying his hands with something--anything. He hated it, he hated being left in this limbo of uncertainty and unawareness, not knowing what had happened and why it seemed like these were his last minutes before meeting his premature demise, although- well, perhaps it was not premature at all. Perhaps it was overdue. As the air changed, losing its specific taste and smell, simultaneously signalling that they had driven past the bridge and were now making their way into Tricorner, Ed decided that he could no longer bear it, his teeth aching from anticipation. He shifted on his seat slightly, head turning as he spoke up: “Victor-”

He was cut off almost immediately, a shake of a bald head and a pair of eyes black as the night looking over at him, flames of sick amusement burning in them like for the best hitman in all of the city this was nothing but a bit of fun, not a matter of life and death. “No,” he said simply, keeping his tone low and bland, but that facade was already cracked and splintered, excitement flaming underneath. “Boss said not to talk to you, just find you and bring you over. I ain’t saying anything, chief. But… off the record, just between you and me?” he leaned slightly in, like he was about to tell a secret that no other soul could ever hear for their both’s sakes. “I think it was  _ amazing _ .”

Well. If before hearing that Ed had been anxious, now he was experiencing a panic attack after a panic attack after a panic attack, with barely enough space in between them to catch a breath or stop and judge if his heart was giving up on him or simply testing its own limits. Before he could decide which one of those equally unappealing options was the case, the car had already stopped and there he was, at what seemed to be his last stop at what appeared to be his last moments. Taking the elevator up to the Iceberg Lounge felt like going to the gallows--it was scary, and uncomfortable, and incapacitating yet at the same time somewhat peaceful, like he knew that his fate was already sealed and there was no point in trying to fight it. His legs carried him across the hallway and through the door before he could even comprehend what was happening, like his body had taken over the decision-making, unable to handle any more tension, all of his insides pierced with needle-thin icicles, turning and turning around to irritate his punctured nerves. As soon as he put his foot in the Lounge, there was already a voice panging against his ears, the sound of it throbbing through his bones and echoing in his marrow as he flinched, his eyes blindly searching around the room before settling on Oswald. “What- what were you  _ thinking _ !?” he called out, furious, as he limped across the club with his cane in his hand, his face the wrong shade of red. “Have you gone  _ completely  _ insane, Ed!? Do you have- do you have any idea- Just, how  _ dare _ you!?” 

Blinding with confusion, Ed shook his head slightly, as if to wake himself up, completely and utterly confused. “I-” he stuttered as he took half a step back, hands raising up to rub at his temple and brush some of the curled strands of hair away from his eyes. “I- I don’t-” He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to say because he didn’t know what Riddler had  _ done _ , and knowing him there was no way of suspecting or guessing, he could have had done  _ anything _ , each one of the ideas floating into Ed’s head worse than the previous one. “Oz, I don’t-” 

“ _ Don’t _ -” Oswald warned him, rising his hand with a single extended digit and pointing it straight at Ed’s face, a vein on his forehead swelling dangerously. “Don’t you  _ Oz _ me now! What in  _ God’s _ name were you thinking, Ed? Are you mad, I was worried  _ sick  _ about you! First you just- you’re not at the club when I sent Wendell to come to pick you up, then you’re not answering your phone, and then the next thing I know you’re parading on TV pulling some  _ crazy _ show that I can’t even  _ begin  _ to think how to clean up! Just-” he cut off there, closing his eyes and clenching his fist so tightly the leather of his glove gave out a creak akin to snapping someone’s fingers out of their sockets, his lips pressed into a thin line, entire body shaking uncontrollably, his frame far too frail to contain all of the strong emotions on the inside. “There are things- there are things,  _ Edward _ , that even I won’t be able to properly justify and sweep under the rug, not when you’re going so directly against the law and you’re not even trying to  _ hide _ it. Do you have any idea how much money and people it’s going to take to keep the holier-than-thou white knights like Jim from you? And for- and for what, for Christ’s sake? Haven’t I given you everything you could possibly  _ ever _ want? Have I ever done anything that could even for a single  _ second _ make you feel like you weren’t being paid attention to? To pull something like that-”

Ed wanted to cry. His throat felt tight and dry, tugged at and then tied in the middle with a piece of piano string, his eyes blurring out and stinging while his nose clogged, his lungs suddenly incapable of expanding to their full capacity and only allowing him to draw in short, sharp breaths. It was like he was a child being accused of and relentlessly berated for a crime he could not fully comprehend, accused of something that was not of his making but nobody wanted to believe him. Nobody wanted to believe him because the perpetrator wore his face and used his hands. “It wasn’t-” he managed to press out, a pathetic little sound not standing a chance against the enormity of  _ the  _ Penguin’s rage. “It wasn’t- It wasn’t me. Oswald,  _ please _ , I didn’t- I don’t even know what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t  _ me _ .”

With a cruel scoff, Oswald rolled his eyes. “ _ All _ of Gotham saw you on TV, Ed, what is that even supposed to mean--it wasn’t you? And-  _ Riddle Factory _ ? Really? I don’t even know if I’m more angry about you doing all of this behind my back or this- this  _ cheesy _ name,” he huffed, snapping his fingers at Wendell who, this far, was patiently watching everything happening in front of him, as amused as Zsasz standing right next to him. Upon being called forward, he stepped out, pulling a few photographs out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handing them to Oswald who then, in turn, handed them to Ed. His own face with a cartoonish grin plastered to it looked up at him from the glossy surface of the picture, dressed in the very same emerald suit he was still wearing, a bowler hat sitting at the top of his head as he stood in front of a microphone like a host of a spectacle about to announce its beginning. Surely enough, the next few photographs depicted Riddler--not Ed, Riddler--speaking to people behind a gameshow-styled pulpit, a ridiculous wheel of fortune next to them, followed by a few rather upsetting shots of the aftermath of the wheel’s arrow landing one one of the red fields. 

And that is when Ed suddenly understood Riddler’s plan and the full extent of his actions, and although to an untrained eye there was no particular intention behind all of this madness, to Ed it was all displayed, bare and tender and for the take but, well,  _ wrongly _ presented. He tried to impress Oswald. He tried to impress Oswald  _ so _ badly, and he failed, and the fact of it would be ironic to the point of hilarity if it wasn’t so grim. “Oswald-” Ed pleaded once again, his entire body recoiling from the stress of what he was about to do, the words rising up in his throat and swelling on his tongue like shattered glass, filling his mouth with blood. “Oswald, please, just listen to me. This-” he waved the photos, his ribs closing in on themselves and puncturing his lungs, “this is not me. This wasn’t me it was- it was  _ him _ . I just never- I just never told you but I’m not just  _ me _ , there’s two of us, and I try to keep him on the inside but sometimes I just can’t, and I’ve been taking all those drugs I thought were going to help but they didn’t and he got out- He’s in love with you and he wanted to prove himself to you because he thinks you should love him, not me and I, I couldn’t stop him this time. I didn’t know what he was going to do, I just- I’m  _ sorry _ , Oswald, but please, you have to believe me, it wasn’t  _ me _ .”

The very thing he had been fearing the most had just happened--Oswald was looking at him like he had completely lost his mind, like all he was saying was nothing but crazy nonsense, every last shred of his sanity dispersed and blown away by his accelerated breathing. “What-” Oswald scoffed, shaking his head and waving his hand in the air, like he wasn’t believing a word of what he was hearing. “What the  _ hell _ is that supposed to mean? What do you mean there’s two of you? Unless you have a secret twin you had failed to mentioned to me before, I don’t see how-”

Ed shook his head. “He’s not my twin, he’s not-” he stopped rapidly, hiding his face in his hands and pressing down firmly at his eyes, the buzzing in his head quieting down, as if to listen. “He’s not my twin, he’s in my head and I- I know how it sounds, I  _ really _ know how it sounds but I’m not  _ crazy _ . He’s someone different, he’s- he’s his own, separate person and we just happen to live inside the same body, he’s been with me since I was a child and now he just- snapped. Please, Oswald-” 

Utter, dumbstruck silence fell over the Iceberg Lounge for solid ten seconds, not a single person daring to make as much as a peep before Zsasz, of all people, decided to speak up, swaying on his feet from side to side like this revelation was somewhat underwhelming to him. “So- so like DID? You know, dissociative identity disorder, few people living in the same head?” he asked, everyone’s head snapping towards him in surprise. “What?” he raised his hairless eyebrows, thumbs behind the straps of his holsters. “Why are you looking at me like that? I’m smart, you know, I know things.”

Oswald didn’t quite respond to that, glancing over at Zsasz for a while before turning towards Ed and looking at his face intently, as to look for a confirmation of that word, a slight, shaky nod of his head verifying the assumption. “I-” he muttered as wiped a hand over his face, the circles around his eyes suddenly darkening, the shoulders slumping a little bit like he couldn’t quite carry the weight of the city anymore. “Go to the penthouse, Ed. I have to- I have to think about this.”

With that, there came the end of their conversation, and Ed was not offered any sort of closure or reassurance or even a sentence--he was simply told to go away and wait, yet again like a child being sent away, not trusted to be kept around while the decision regarding the punishment was being made. There was nothing left for him to do other than to simply nod his head and rip his feet off the floor where they seemed to had grown into the tiles, each step burning like there was molten lava spilt all across his path. He was still trembling like a leaf in a windstorm as he forced himself up the spiral stairs, through the vast entrance hall, to finally fall down heavily at one of the couches, his head hung low, fingers digging into his curled hair. All those white-hot needles stabbing at him from the inside, he almost wished that he had been simply walked out to the rooftop and shot in the head, a quick and painless death appearing like a more appealing alternative to the excruciating torment of staying in the nightmare-like state of uncertainty. “Are you happy now?” he rasped out as bitter tears swell in his eyes, blurring his vision spilling down his heated cheeks. It hurt. It hurt so, so badly. “Are you proud of yourself, Rid? Did you get what you wanted? Well, I guess not, because you fucked up. He doesn’t love you. And because of you, now he doesn’t love me, either. But he hates us both, so I guess that’s as good as anything, huh?”

“I  _ never _ wanted any of this,” Riddler grunted at him as he had suddenly appeared out of the thin air, standing right in front of where Ed was sitting, arms crossed over his chest, his features dissolved and obscured by the tears that just seemed to not want to stop pouring. Since the last time they had seen each other eye-to-eye, his appearance had changed quite a bit, the dark checkered suit gone for the sake of an emerald one, a bowler hat identical to the one in the pictures sitting on his head, square hands covered with gloves. It was clear that he wanted to sound nonchalant, like he was still in the charge of the situation, like Oswald’s harshness hadn’t affected him at all, but he was sticking his thumb in between his teeth and shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “ _ You _ forced me to act so quickly. And you  _ know _ I care about Oswald. Maybe if you’ve given me a chance to explain this to him properly, then he wouldn’t be so angry at us now.” He exhaled. “I just didn’t expect you to take over so quickly, I wasn’t done  _ yet _ . Ugh, I knew I should have just had a coffee instead of risking a nap, because, really, look where it has brought us.”

Ed stared up at him trying to stifle a hiccup, his cheeks burning and nose running, hands sliding down and clapsing on his knees. “What- what are you even  _ talking _ about?” he asked, the hurt and the grief turning into slow-stewing anger. “ _ You _ are the one who ruined everything, for both of us! I had- I had  _ everything _ already figured out, I could have had a life with Oswald until you’ve decided to just destroy all of I’ve been working on for nearly a year! This is  _ your _ fault.” 

His expression suddenly changing, rage twisting his features out of proportion, deepening all the creases, and accentuating all the angles, Riddler threw his arms up in the air. “No, this is  _ your _ fault! None of this would happen if it wasn’t for  _ you _ !” he exclaimed, the chipped remains of his cool facade now completely peeling off and dropping down to the ground, exposing the raw inside hidden underneath, with all of its flaws and tender spots and wounds that had never quite scabbed over, let alone healed from the trauma. “I hurt the most when lost, yet also when not had at all. I’m sometimes the hardest to express, but the easiest to ignore. I cost and weigh nothing but I can endure a whole lifetime. What am I?” he asked, gesticulating sharply, his voice filled to the brim with pure  _ desperation _ . “Love, Ed.  _ Love _ . I have loved you my  _ entire  _ life! I’ve loved you since you were ten years old! We grew up together, we went through all of your school years together and then when you were starting university you just decided to  _ abandon _ me and pretend like I never even existed in the first place!” He huffed, dropping his arms down, his chest rising and falling heavily. “I wanted to be loved  _ back _ and Oswald- Oswald seemed  _ perfect _ . He’s smart, he’s cunning, he’s strong, he’s powerful, he’s  _ beautiful _ . I was even willing to share him with you but you just- you just  _ had _ to take him for yourself! You wouldn’t even let me out for five seconds to talk to him, you took  _ everything _ there was about our lives for yourself and kept me locked in a box like an animal. Of course that when I realised you would  _ never _ even let me have a single conversation with Oswald I decided I had to get you out of the picture. But you can’t even judge me, or pretend that I’m a monster because of that because that is exactly what you’ve been doing to me for the past twelve years!”

There was a ringing in his ears so loud it was deafening as if there was a cathedral bell hanging between his ears and each beating of his heart marked another hit of a hammer banging against the thick brass walls, the boisterous echoing of it thumping on the inside of his skull until it was beginning to crack and turning his brain into mush. It was like suddenly he had forgotten how to speak or form a coherent thought in any language, his mind empty like a blank piece of paper as he could barely even focus his vision on Riddler’s face, the tears stopping abruptly, and only wet trails on Ed’s cheeks proving that they were even there in the first place. One, two, three, four, five, and then there was a click and a shift, all the puzzle pieces falling into the places to form a full, clear and crisp picture, all of its details and sharp edges shining bright. “I-” he finally stuttered out, slowly rising up from the couch, his bottom lip trembling. “Wh- You  _ love _ me? Why didn’t you ever tell me-?”

“Oh, because all of our attempts of having a conversation have been going  _ so _ great for the past years, haven’t they? You’ve been trying to get rid of me since you were eighteen, what was I supposed to say to someone who didn’t want me there anymore? “ _ Don’t make me disappear, Eddie, I’m in love with you _ ”?” He made a sour face, like someone had just put lemon in his mouth and told him to swallow. “It would only make you take all those pills faster. I didn’t want you to kill us over this. It was the only logical move in this situation.” His jaw moved under his skin, his teeth clenching. “I could have at least Oswald love me, but you had to ruin that too.”

Fingers twitching and curling and  _ itching _ for something he knew he could never touch, let alone  _ reach _ , Ed swallowed down hard around the orange-sized lump in his throat, his entire worlds shattering and collapsing in on itself only to then be rebuilt in a matter of seconds, changing its initial structure and flashing with the colours he had never had any idea existed. The foul taste of regret and remorse was burning out the walls of his cuts and climbing up his throat to dissolve his vocal cords and render him speechless, body shivering and trembling, covered in cold sweats to the point where it no longer even felt like his own. He couldn’t even begin to form the words that could repair the smallest bits of what  _ he _ had crushing and ruining for the past years, the fact of his own mistakes and wrongdoings turning the garden in his chest into a sick and withered patches of yellowed weeds. A simple  _ sorry _ was not in place here, a simple  _ sorry _ was not going to rebuild something that he had thrown away over a decade ago, a simple  _ sorry _ was never going to make up for years of neverending internal torment and alienation. He had always thought that he was quite reserved and held-back, that he was rarely plagued by intense or ugly emotions, and it was only then, standing in the middle of a darkened penthouse that he had realised that he had been simply unloading it all onto someone who could not run away from him, no matter how hard he was pushing back. And he wanted to apologise, he wanted to apologise so badly but his tongue was like a piece of rotten wood and his limbs were paralysed and it was only when he heard the tapping of uneven steps on the stairs leading up there that he had realised that the world had not ended just yet. Oswald exhaled heavily, both hands resting on the cane in front of him. “I would like to meet him.”

It was not the end.


	20. twenty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last “proper” chapter of this fic but since I’m uploading it at the same time as the Actual last AND the first chapter of the new AU well,,, I’m not going to say much so I just hope that you’re going to enjoy this very special part from another point of view! <3

He was finally out.

They had been together for what seemed like a forever, a state where it was only one of them nonexistent, really, Ed’s earlier memories blocked out and locked away deep in his mind for his own protection and Riddler’s consciousness only beginning when he had been the most needed, breaking off and sparking up into being in the direst of moments. For years and years, in the face of the harshness of the outside world and the inexplicable cruelty of the people around them--especially those who should be anything but--it had once seemed that it had been just the two of them against everything else. So much time had they spent sharing nothing and everything in each other’s company, struggling to make it through the excruciatingly slow ticking of the clock but always having the comfort of knowing that, at the end of the day, they had had each other, and that they always would. Until they hadn’t. Even after all this time, it was still… difficult to pinpoint where they had gone wrong, exactly, what had happened in their shared lives that had separated something that should never be separated and, from that moment on, each one of their interactions to come had seemed to only put more salt into the already stinging wounds. Whatever the reason had been, the fact remained that they had turned bitter, and angry, and they had drifted as far away from one another as it was possible for two people sharing the same body, the differences that had once made them complete one another now grinding like sand thrown into the cogs and gears of an already poorly functioning machine. Still seemingly unable to access the reality and the kind of life the people around them had been living, they had become hostile, turned against each other like mistreated dogs fighting in a fight that, ultimately, could only bring them even more hurt and solitude. 

It had been a very long journey down a very long road, spanning over close to twelve years filled to the brim with a whole array of misunderstandings, all the possible shades of aching, and more weight of enmity and regret anyone should ever have to carry but, in the end, now it was beginning to seem like it had all been worth it. To think that it would take falling for the same man, an obscene amount of drugs, and a sort of sabotage lined with betrayal and revenge for them to speak with each other candidly again seemed like a poor joke written by an unfunny comedian, the kind who would be booed off the stage for wasting everyone’s time and money. Once upon a time, they had used to talk to each other about everything and anything, never keeping secrets from one another and not hesitating with baring the most sensitive parts of their souls to each other, certain that the access to these soft spots would not be used as a weapon. Where had they gone wrong? Neither one of them knew, and neither one really wanted to clench down his teeth, take a deep breath, and look over his shoulder at the development of their relationship, each step of it progressively darker and darker, in the fears that the longing for the times of light would inevitably turn out to be too much to bear. They knew they that there would have to come a time where they had to discuss it, otherwise the web of past hurts would only grow thicker and thicker, to the point of suffocation, the grudges running too deep to ever scab over, let alone heal, scar, and then fade away. But it appeared that they were on the right track now, admitting to the love that had managed to withstand two and a half decades of growing up and falling apart, only to then come back together like it was meant to be, like there could never be one without the other, like they were two parts of a whole.

Well, two out of three. Riddler loved Ed--it was the very basic fact of his being and what had sprouted him to begin with; it was such a crucial and fundamental part of him that, were he deprived of it, he would simply no longer be the same person, or perhaps even cease to exist at all. However, no matter how much he completely and wholly loved Ed, it did not in any capacity change the fact that he wanted Oswald as well, that he  _ craved _ him, that there was something about the sharp look of those grey-blue eyes and the authoritative, dropping tone of voice that made his guts stir and his blood run hot like liquid fire. Ever since he had first lied his eyes on Oswald Cobblepot on the cover of the Gotham Gazette, Riddler had known that he there had been  _ something  _ special about him,  _ something  _ tugging and pulling and drawing him towards him, almost like it was meant to be, almost like it was  _ fate _ . It was not a case of desperately aching for reciprocated feelings, nor was it a clumsy attempt at replacing something that was irreplaceable, but more of being mesmerised by someone new, someone  _ different _ , someone that had had the potential of filling up all the gaps and nooks and crannies Riddler had still had empty, even with Ed on his good side. The only thing Riddler hadn’t predicted along this way was how  _ good _ Oswald would turn out to be for Ed, how well they would fit together once again pushing him to the sidelines of the subconscious, and it felt like an offence, like a theft, like a violation. It had been this anger and resentment that had had him doing something he had promised himself never to do--hurt Ed and hurt him in ways so vile, pushing and stabbing at all the tender places so relentlessly that he had ended up being  _ disgusted _ with himself. But he was sorry and Ed knew that, and Ed was sorry and Riddler knew that, and if they were both sorry and they both knew that, it meant that they could start making amendments, between all three of them. 

Now it was the time for Riddler and Oswald to meet for the first time, officially at least, to share all the chapters of their story that could not quite make it past Ed’s throat, or he simply didn’t have an access to them, or that could be best explained by someone who had seen and experienced all of it from a different perspective. At that point, neither of them had spoken to Oswald since he had requested to talk to Riddler, a whole day and half of the evening passing by that they had needed to discuss their past, their present, and the prospect of their future, on top of taking a long, very long shower. They didn’t know where this, where _ all _ of this would eventually lead, too many variables remaining uncertain to form any assumptions or predictions, but at least now they knew that even if this wasn’t going to work, they still had each other. Being in charge through a mutually agreed-upon choice instead of forcing his way to it using tactics he would later regret was  _ liberating _ , the skin finally sitting right on his bones, the face looking back at him from the mirror his own instead of a stolen one. He enjoyed the stretch of the muscles that finally belonged to him as he dressed up, his body no longer awkward and out of shape as if he didn’t own it and was only temporarily hijacking it before being found out and shoved out of the driver’s seat. There was just something so very satisfying in seeing himself like this, fully in command without someone trying to push himself into his place or an insistent sense of guilt hurting his teeth, able to crack his knuckles to hear them pop and leave the glasses on the bedside table without a care in the world. And he looked good too, all dressed up in yet another emerald suit with a black shirt underneath, leather gloves covering his hands and a bowler hat on his head, fully presenting that although they were sharing a body, they somehow still managed to look so vastly different from one another. 

Through all this process of meticulous dressing up, combing his hair, and trying to decide between two ties, he was being closely observed by Ed manifested right behind him with his brow scrunched, curly hair getting into his eyes as he cocked his head to the side, judging the view. “Are you… nervous?” he asked slowly, the faintest note of amusement in his voice as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed over his chest, one of his hands rubbing at his chin. He wasn’t used to this, he wasn’t used to not being in the driver’s seat out of his own accord, but he knew that this was the right thing to do, and he knew that at the very least he  _ owed _ it to Riddler to have this conversation without supervision or interference. 

Riddler gave out a scoff in response, shaking his head until one of the slicked-back strands forced its way out of the gel and slid down the side of his grinning face. “Come on now, Eddie, don’t be ridiculous,” he chuckled, brushing it back under his bowler hat and reaching up to the knot of his tie to make sure that it was straight. He wanted to look  _ very _ presentable, after all, this wasn’t just about meeting Oswald officially and explaining everything to him--it was also about making an impression good enough to convince him that there was a chance between them, between the two of them, between the  _ three _ of them. They would make sense together, Riddler knew about it, Ed was quickly realising the same thing, and all that was really left to do was to show it to Oswald and to charm him, have him fall in love all over again. “Of course I’m not nervous. I’m very charismatic and interesting. Besides, I know Oswald better than he thinks I do.” He clicked his tongue. “Hm, I probably should mention that to him, too. Are you sure you want me to explain  _ everything _ to him?”

A bit hesitantly, Ed nodded as he bit down on one of his nails. “I don’t want you to lie to him, about anything. I’ve already done enough lying for the both of us, don’t you think?” He sighed heavily, like the thought of that alone was putting him in the kind of physical pain that was difficult to endure, much less without flinching. “Besides, I’m not sure if he still doesn’t think that we- that  _ I _ am crazy, and if you explain it to him as it is, there are better chances of him understanding and believing us. I don’t really think he’s having such an easy time accepting the fact that I’m- that  _ we _ are not one person, and that I haven’t come up with all of this just to cover up making a show on television.” He stopped for a moment, as in thought, still chewing on his finger. “ _ Riddle Factory _ ? Really?” he finally blurted out, like this name would not leave him at peace, like it had crawled through his ears and gnawed at his brain since he had first heard it. “Is that  _ all _ you could come up with? Even  _ you _ have to admit that it’s cheesy, and you’ve named yourself after your favourite activity, so the bar was already pretty low.” 

Snorting, Riddler’s smile only widened. “Alright,  _ E. Nygma _ . First of all,  _ Riddle Factory _ is catchy and it’s self-explanatory, which is the key if you want to grab the attention of a wider public. And, second of all, I named myself when I was  _ seven _ . You changed your name when you were  _ eighteen _ , what is  _ your  _ excuse?” It wasn’t a fight, they weren’t  _ arguing _ , they were simply bickering and gently mocking each other in a joking manner, something they had used to do a lot when they were younger and, if anything, it was a sign of healing. 

Cheeks immediately flushing up like he was embarrassed at the reminder that they were both responsible for their equally tacky and dramatic names, and that is while leaving out the stacks of puzzle-related items they had owned besides that, such as mugs, cufflinks, and tie pins with question marks on them, Ed looked away. “I- I’m  _ not _ having this discussion with you right now, you’re  _ stalling _ .” He looked down at the silver watch shining on Riddler’s wrist, one of the many gifts Ed had been given by Oswald in the past months. “You should go, he’s already waiting for you. I’m going to stay back as I promised, I’m not going to listen to you, but I  _ do _ want to talk to him once you’re done, so just tell me when I can come in. I’m  _ begging _ you not to tell him riddles. And, Rid?” he added after a second of a pause, as if he had just remembered it, or perhaps like this was the only moment when he had the courage to say something that had already made its way out of his throat and now was only waiting to slip past his lips. “I love you.”

His smile changed, going from wide and toothy, causing dimples to appear in his cheeks and wrinkles around his eyes, down to a gentler, calmer, softer. “I love you, too, Eddie,” he said gingerly, tenderly, like these were the most precious words in any language known to man and he had to handle them with care, otherwise they might shatter and he didn’t want to cut his hands trying to pick up the pieces again. This moment of vulnerability only lasted a few short seconds as they looked into each other’s eyes in the smooth surface of the mirror before Riddler snapped out of it, clearing his throat and tugging at his tie one last time before he knew it was the time to go. As he gave one last exhale, he turned around on the heel of his boot and headed for the stairs leading back down to the inside of the Iceberg Lounge, the humming of Ed’s consciousness quieting down until it became almost completely silent, lingering more like a memory than a presence. The truth was, he hadn’t been wrong--Riddler  _ was _ nervous, but he would rather be caught dead than to admit it, that there was something about the perspective of staying with Oswald one-on-one that put a bag full of ice down in his stomach and tied rocks to his ankles, as if to drown and paralyse him. Explaining everything to Oswald was a great responsibility, because the fate of his relationship with him and with Ed, as well as Ed’s own relationship with Oswald depended on it quite greatly but, well. This was not the worst, nor the most difficult thing he had done in his life--he had been made to withstand adversities and get through the toughest of times. He was fine. He was going to do fine. 

Walking down the spiral staircase, he leaned slightly over the railing to take a look at the inside of the club, making a brief reconnaissance of the settings to make the best and most confident entrance he possibly could, successfully differentiating himself from Ed from the beginning with just his temper. Oswald had had a table set up close to the stage where the piano and the rest of musical instruments were displayed, waiting for the next opening night to be used, candles burning on the deep purple tablecloth with a floral arrangement in the middle of it. It appeared that he had really meant it when he had invited Riddler to dinner and, honestly, Riddler had expected nothing less from him--he was the single most powerful man in a city of ten million people, of course, he wanted to make sure to establish his position during his first meeting with someone he had never met before. And  _ that _ was one of the things that had made Riddler so drawn to him in the first place, the sheer amount of power he had held and the manner in which he had come to have it had made him want to get  _ drunk _ on it and never sober up. The second he heard Riddler approaching, Oswald’s eyes rose up from where he was mindlessly rubbing his thumb over the prongs of one of the forks, his entire frame perking up, a shade of confusion crossing his features as he watched Riddler come closer and take a seat on the other side of the table. “This is not the first time I’m meeting you,” he began bluntly, not even trying to be subtle, “is it?”

Immediately, the almost caricatural grin was back on Riddler’s face, something tickling him from the inside at this prime reminder of just how sharp Oswald was, how perceptive he was and, really, there was no surprise to it--one does not climb to the very top from the bottom of the gutters by remaining oblivious to his surroundings. Nevertheless, it was still impressive of someone to come to such a swift conclusion after only learning a surprising and somewhat overwhelming piece of information of this weight and then processing it entirely less than twelve hours later. “No,” Riddler admitted as he crossed his legs, resting both of his gloved hands on his raised knee, his dark eyes scanning every square inch of Oswald’s face and committing them to memory. “I, well, I might’ve talked to you once or twice before, pretending to be Ed. I couldn’t help myself, and he wouldn’t let me, so I had to allow myself when he wasn’t exactly… conscious.” 

Oswald looked at him for a few seconds, his expression completely blank in a manner rather uncharacteristic to his usual way of being, like he was trying to assess the situation and choose his words carefully before speaking them, fully realising the significance of this conversation. “I want to know more about this,” he said at last, reaching for his wine glass and taking a sip from it big enough to betray just how tensed his own nerves were. He made a vague gesture towards Riddler as he sat more comfortably, trying to relax, leaning against the back of his cushioned chair. “Explain it to me. How does this- this  _ thing _ work? Are you- are you like siblings? Is it just the two of you or is there more or-?”

“No. God, no,” Riddler laughed as he took his own glass, all too aware that he would  _ not _ be able to get through all of this sober. “And it is just the two of us--Ed and I. Which actually makes us a quite rare pair, but we’ve never needed more, we’ve had each other and that seemed like enough.” He inhaled around the bubble clogging his airways all of the sudden, like talking about their situation, talking about their past, talking about  _ himself _ in this uncomfortable and dehumanised way was turning out to be a bigger bite than he thought he could easily chew. “It’s called dissociative identity disorder,” he finally spat those words out like they were burning his tongue and melting his teeth, like the sound and the taste of them was something he could hardly bear. “ _ Usually _ it happens when people, especially children, experience the kind of trauma their brain just can’t handle to process so they- they disassociate to distance themselves from the memories or external stressors. They break off to create a personality that would be able to withstand all that they can’t. That’s me.” Riddler smiled but there was no joy in it, his heart hurting and the inside of his head suddenly feeling too quiet, too empty, too  _ alone _ . “But I’m  _ not _ -” he moved his hand, his voice rising without his saying before he curled his fingers into a fist and put it back down it his lap. “But I’m  _ not _ just a part of Ed’s mind or a figment of his imagination. I’m not a coping mechanism. I’m a  _ person _ . And quite a brilliant one at that.”

That was  _ a lot _ to digest all at once, especially after days worth of stress and despite being willing to learn and understand, so Riddler didn’t blame Oswald when he turned his head back to finish his glass of wine in one big gulp, and then reached for the bottle to fill it back up to the brim. “So what you’re saying is,” he uttered, a few red droplets running down the curve of the glass and hanging off the tips of his slender fingers, “that something has happened to Ed in the past that was bad enough that he needed someone else to take care of it.” That wasn’t a question, that was merely a statement, putting what he had just heard in his own terms and his own words, making sure that he was getting a grasp on things correctly. “There is one Ed on the outside, but there are two people on the inside and he is not crazy, no matter how crazy this  _ sounds _ .” He exhaled, crossing his legs, his free arm draped over his chest in a subconsciously defensive gesture, like he was no longer sure if he was able to handle and accept all of this. Riddler had to tread carefully. “How long has this- been going on?”

Letting himself take a sharper breath of air, Riddler took his hat off and placed in on the table in front of him, running a hand over his slicked-back hair to make sure that they were untouched and that he still was presentable, still different from Ed. “Since Ed was five. Almost twenty-five years now. His father…” Riddler’s guts twisted immediately at the memory, his skin burning in all the place that had once been covered in scabs and bruises, his ribs giving out an old and nearly forgotten creak. “Well, let’s just say that he wasn’t the best one. Ed was just a kid and it was- it was too much for him to handle, he wasn’t keeping up in being stuck between an abusive household and a school full of children bullying him every single day. He needed a friend, someone who would be close to his age enough so he could feel safe, but older enough so he could let ‘em step in when the situation called for it. That’s where I come in, I’m- roughly two years older than him. And I kept him safe--I listened to the yelling, I got the beating, I received the punishments, but Ed was safe. We- we used to be best friends.” He chuckled at the fond image of the days gone by, so far in the past they almost did not seem real. “Then it started changing when he was about to go to uni. He  _ knew _ that I was real and he  _ knew _ that I was just as much of a person as he was but he was moving far,  _ far _ away from home and he wanted a fresh start, so he told himself that I was just his imaginary friend and he didn’t need me anymore. That’s when we started fighting.” He shrugged. “Here we are now.”

Oswald listened to everything intently, his face becoming more strained and his lips pressed into a thin line more and more with each word, almost like hearing them was putting him in pain, like he didn’t want to listen anymore but he knew that he had to understand  _ everything _ . “So your fighting is the reason why Ed has been acting strange lately, why he’s been  _ avoiding _ me,” he stated with clear displease ringing through his tone. “But that doesn’t explain  _ why _ you’ve put up that show. From what you’re telling me, your job was to take care of Ed, and putting him on a spot like that is- it’s as far as you can possibly go from that.”

Suddenly, Riddler felt  _ ashamed _ . He had very much expected that this conversation would not be a pleasant or a comfortable one, but he hadn’t expected to be accused like that, to be pointed out the wrong he had done in the bluntest terms possible, that he would be reminded that he had failed to fulfil his primary function. He scoffed softly as he glanced down at his hands, rubbing them in a manner he had picked up from Ed a long, long time ago before he looked back up, trying to put as confident of a face as he could with what he was about to say. “I wanted to impress you,” he admitted, allowing himself for a self-pitying smile. “I got- I got  _ fascinated _ with you before Ed even paid much attention to you in the first place. I am the reason he was here that night when you first approached him, I wasn’t counting on him getting back to himself before I had the chance to talk to you. We-  _ I _ was infatuated with you and I was sure that if I could just talk to you, you could be mine, but Ed got there before I could and I was-  _ so _ angry.” He reached for the wine again, trying to wash the foul taste out of his mind. “I love Ed,” he said, the words coming to him easily because they were the truth. “I always have and I always will. But I’m in love with you, too.”

“You know, I meant it when I said it,” Oswald responded, far faster than a surprise could warrant, almost like he was expecting it and he already had an answer ready. “I meant it when I said that Ed was the love of my life. I love him more than I ever have and more than I ever will love anyone else, and as-  _ flattered _ as I am, I’m not going to let anyone come in between that. Not even you.” 

Ah- “Oswald,” Riddler said slowly, smiling an amused smile while he desperately tried to fight through the sinking feeling suddenly grasping at his stomach, sucking all the warmth from his body and shoving snow in place of his marrow, making his bottom lip quiver ever so slightly. “Do you think I don’t know that? I’m not trying to come  _ between _ you and Ed, that would be ridiculous. I know Ed loves you but, see, he loves me, too.” He finally straightened up in his seat, leaning in to rest his hand on the table, close enough to Oswald's own that were he as much as to twitch a muscle, their fingers would brush, revealing the fate awaiting for them just around the corner. It was a signal, it was a statement, it was a begging request to  _ please _ , just give him a chance. "We love the same man, and he loves us. Seems like there is only one loose end to tie, wouldn't you say?

It was all falling into place.


	21. twenty-one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s my 20th birthday today and this last chapter is my gift from me to all of you--I won’t take up much of your time right now since I know y’all are probably itching to find out how the story is going to end so I’m going to allow myself for a longer note at the end of it. But for now--enjoy! <3

They made it work. 

It had been weeks, turned into months in what had seemed like a blink of an eye, since Riddler had first introduced himself to Oswald officially--since they had taken the time and the vulnerable pieces of their souls to sit down in the candle-lit, expensive intimacy of the Iceberg Lounge and talk about, well, everything. They had spoken for hours that evening, Ed joining them later on when the moon had risen and the stars had shone over the roofs of skyscrapers as their conversation bled into the night, covering all and every aspect of their prospective, shared future. After months of lies, half-truths, and dishonesty, now was the time for all of them to be perfectly candid, to start with a clean slate, and to build their relationship back up from the ground on a foundation solid enough to withstand whatever curveballs and ploys life would throw at them, and all three of them had known that there would be plenty of those to come. Not one of them had ever expected to find himself in a situation such as this, in a three-way arrangement between a crimelord of a grand city and two people occupying the same body, two sides of the same coin but as different from each other as they could possibly be. Getting adjusted to this had taken a long time and it had not been an easy journey by any accounts, not with deeply-rooted hurts needing amending, plenty of trust to be replenished, and proper communication to be learned--something none of them had ever been particularly good at. But they had worked it out eventually--through a whole series of honest conversations, an array of small gestures, and various acts of service they had grown closer and to live in what seemed like a perfect partnership, a perfect symbiosis where they had fit together like puzzle pieces. It had been less about learning how to manage this as much as it had been about discovering that they had never felt more  _ right _ , like this was the way they had always been meant to be, like it was fate itself that had brought them together and it had been their foolish actions of trying to push against it that had almost made them ruin it. 

As the days passed one after the other at a pace that made them all blur out and blend into one another, they had suddenly found themselves entirely comfortable and at ease with each other, with what they had between each other, with the way things had turned out for them in the end. But that was not to say that there had been no work put into getting to that point--after all, no things worth living for had ever come to anyone easily, and if there had been people who had learned this fact of life in the most painful of ways, it had been them. There was no point in hiding or denying the fact that Oswald had been thoroughly aching down to the marrow of his bones to find out that the man he had pronounced the love of his life had been lying to him for almost entirety of their relationship. However, thankfully for all of them, Oswald was the kind of person who did not love easily, and once he loved he did so wholly and thoroughly, the kind of love he had for Ed greater than life itself like a strong fire in his chest that could not be put out even in the middle of a thunderstorm, ready to burn him down to ash before dying out. All it took for him to forgive was a painfully honest conversation, an incredibly long, warm, and secure hug, and a tight kiss tied at the end of it like a ribbon with a promise to never,  _ ever _ lie again because he was not something Oswald could live without anymore but his back was running out of space for the blades grazing against his ribs. To say that Ed was sorry would be an understatement, the guilt of all he had done to the two people he would be willing to demolish the whole city to the ground for weighing him down and pulling him under the surface while cold water poured into his lungs, drowning him in regret. And to learn that not all was lost after all? It felt like taking a breath of fresh air for the first time in his life. 

While those amendments had been being made and all the cracks and breaks filled back and smoothed out seamlessly until there was barely a pale, white scar left behind, there had also been twelve years worth of negligence, hurt, and betrayal to work through between Ed and Riddler. Neither one of them had been without a fault where it came to the throbbing decay of their relationship, the pain of which resonated through them on a level beyond physical and seemingly devastating a very important part of them. They had gone wrong somewhere, sometime, somehow--they had both remembered the vague specifics, causes, and aftermath but dwelling on something they had brought onto themselves before either one of them had even turned twenty seemed counterproductive. Why linger on the past and insist on finding the wrongdoer when they could simply move on, start from the beginning, apologise so very candidly it put salt on their tongues and water in their eyes and swear to never,  _ ever _ let go of each other again? Once that grudge had been mended, forgiven, and forgotten, they had spent quite a while rediscovering each other--for two people who had lived on the inside of the same head for two and a half decades they had known surprisingly little about one another. Nevertheless, there had had to be some ground rules to be put down, seeing how they had only one body to share and they had never wanted to find themselves fighting over who were to be behind the steering wheel again. But even that concern had been quickly put down to rest as they had learned that, with enough cooperation, they were able to both stay conscious at the same time, each one using half of the body and only taking turns while speaking. They would still leave the other one to it at times, of course, especially when it had been for the sake of Riddler growing closer with Oswald, getting to know him closely, and, eventually, having him fall in love as well. 

Soon, the three of them had become inseparable and so closely-knit that they were  _ certain _ there was nothing that could ever possibly come between them, their relationship only growing stronger with each day, as if their belonging to one another had been written in the stars and now they were finally following it. They were perfect and balanced and  _ unstoppable  _ together, for any fault of character or lack in ability one of them had, the other two completed and filled them up, all of their jagged edges and crooked corners clicking together to form a  _ whole _ . Even when it came down to managing the machine of the underworld, keeping everyone on the surface in line, and those upstairs on a close watch, it had rather swiftly come to light that it was more of a three- than a two-man-job. All in all, they had come out on top and everything had been working out for them better than any of them could have had predicted--they had come a very long way to where they were now, both separately and together, and now it seemed like there was just one last thing to get done before they could be  _ complete _ . Nowadays, Gotham had not one, not two, but three kings ruling over it, and the only problem with this arrangement was that the people did not know about it and they had to be made aware, and they had to be made aware in a way that they would  _ understand _ . Due to the nature of Ed’s and Riddler’s state of being that was proving itself to be challenging, of course, as the last thing they wanted was to be confused and mistaken for one another for the rest of their lives, treated as one when they were two. Something simply had to be done about it.

“Any news?” Oswald asked the very second he put his foot in the Puzzle Palace, the steady tapping of his cane against the floor announcing his arrival before he even moved the heavy, dark green curtain separating the inside of the club from the narrow corridor leading up to it. Despite its initial setback, after just a couple of weeks, it had become one of the most frequented establishments not only in the Tricorner but in all of Gotham, the Riddle Factory becoming a regular event every other week, amassing dozens of attendees and thousands of dollars. There had to be a few strings pulled and a few bank accounts filled in order to make sure that every person with even a smidge of power in law enforcement would look away when the show was happening, but not even the money, but the pure joy it was bringing Riddler was worth every penny. “I’m sorry I’m late, I got- distracted at the orphanage, I didn’t even notice how late it has gotten.” 

Ed and Riddler leaned out from the railing surrounding the higher floor of the bar, giving him a delighted, wide smile. “I could name three who are in love with me and have three associates in vice. It is vain that you seek me for I have long been in heaven yet now lie embalmed in the grave. What am I?” Riddler asked as he waved his arm as he tend to do during his show and tipping his bowler hat with a wink. The longer Ed and Oswald were allowing this habit of his to go on, the more convoluted his riddles were becoming, and he seemed perfectly aware of it so he gave Oswald a moment to think about this as he headed for the stairs, taking his time to walk down the spiral case. 

Rolling his eyes, Oswald tilted his head back as he allowed himself to be kissed twice--once from Ed, once from Riddler, both of those times lingering for a second longer than a simple peck would warrant, a wordless expression of how much they had missed each other through the endless hours of the day. “Yet now lie embalmed in the grave?” he repeated as he raised one of his eyebrows, sucking at his teeth with displease as he couldn’t come up with the answer right away. It was nothing but Riddler’s way of being, something that he liked to use as his trademark but not being able to answer always tied itself to a sense of defeat--admitting someone else was smarter, and Oswald did  _ not _ like losing. “Embalmed in the grave-” he echoed once again as something suddenly clicked in his brain, the solution obvious. “V? Is the answer v? Just- the letter, or- v as in victory?” His eyes opened up wide, hand reaching out to grasp at the lapel of the suit on Riddler’s side. “Did you- did you manage? Is it-?”

With a stretch of a neck to the side and the cheerful expression faltering for a moment, now it was Ed who spoke up as he slid his glasses back up on his nose, fidgeting with the frames briefly. “Yes and no,” he explained slowly, but there was a familiar shade of excitement at the edges of his words, seeping into his voice and shifting the tone to unravel what emotions lying underneath. “We  _ did  _ manage to find Strange. Well, truth be told Zsasz did and then he dragged him all the way back to Gotham, but it was  _ our _ tip that put Zsasz on the right track so, technically, it’s still  _ we _ that managed. And we would have had a pretty pleasant conversation with him if  _ someone _ wasn’t too hasty with getting to the bottom of things.” He paused there to sigh as to express his frustration with Riddler’s temper, but it was done so lovingly, tenderness peeking through the irritation. “Either way, we did talk to him and gave him a  _ very _ generous offer that he was quite keen on accepting, but he did warn us that, surprisingly, this is nothing he has ever done before so he’s going to need money for research and, well… testing. We just went ahead and assumed that you’d agree so we told him that he can have whatever he could possibly want as long as he gets it done and he gets it done  _ well _ .” Ed shrugged. “All we have left to do now is to wait for results.”

Something swelled up in Oswald’s chest at the news, something round and soft and  _ warm _ \--pure unadulterated joy sparking up between his ribs and spreading through his veins through this entire body, making him tingle down to the tips of his fingers. He put his cane to the side, setting it up against the counter of the bar to have both of his hands free, reaching up to put them on Ed’s and on Riddler’s cheek, bringing them down for a long, tight kiss. “I am  _ so _ glad to hear that,” he murmured to them sweetly, rubbing his thumbs over the sharp cheekbones, the skin under his palms heating up and turning red. “All I want for both of you is to be happy, but I  _ am _ going to make sure that this is safe before I let Strange anywhere near you. Now.” He stepped back, smiling as he looked at the two people he loved more than he had ever thought he would be able to love, a dangerous spark in his eye. “I think this calls for a celebration, don’t you?”

They were only just getting started. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Here we are--at the end of the road. This has been such an incredible journey for me and I am so very proud of myself for managing this story until the end because this is the first big project I have ever finished in my entire life. I’m a little emotional as I’m writing this note because honestly,,, these past five months had been some of the most hectic in my life--I graduated from high school I moved away from my hometown and then eventually left the country for the sake of studying in another one. But through thick and thin I had Oswald and Ed and Riddler to comfort myself with and they had been such a wonderful coping mechanism and companions for me through some of the most difficult moments when I thought my mental health was going to completely collapse on me. I don’t know where my next AU is going to go just yet but I know for sure that this one is always going to have a very special place in my heart and those three funky little criminals will always be so very dear to me. Anyway. Thank you for joining me through those twenty-one chapters. I hope y’all enjoyed the ride as much as I did. See you in the next one! <3 
> 
> \- Aleks
> 
> we were kings.; my new AU: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27561595/chapters/67414342


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